


The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Copious A/N with Gratuitous Urls, First time - eventually (don't hold your breath), Food on one notable occasion utilised as something of an impromptu fashion item, Food? Of course there’s food – they’re hobbits, Hobbit Social History, Illustrations, Lengthy Disquisitions, M/M, Modicum of Artistic Licence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 124,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GAFFS lasts for days - but Frodo has never wanted to stay over before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> GAFFS is completely AU (except for the love between Frodo and Sam which is, of course, canon.) The idea been done before by others, and probably better – there is nothing new in the Shire, after all. But _Write what you know_ , they say. 
> 
> So, this takes my many years of exhibiting at agricultural shows, both local and national; gleans a few gems from a plethora of research into Victorian travelling fairs and the existence of fairground rides before the common use of steam (of which JRRT patently did not approve and I have therefore not permitted here); combines therewith traditional (and some not so) songs from the rural English folk scene, regional breeds of livestock (some, regrettably, now extinct) plus games and sports both country current and Tolkien originals (and one which may be apocryphal, as noted); also many crafts and skills of the dead or vanishing sorts. All of these are, of course, wrapped in a deal of personal and undisguised nostalgia. 
> 
> There should be adduced a certain amount of authorial leeway, but I offer up this tale with a great deal of respect for Tolkien’s Shire and for hobbits in general; but mostly with infinite love for Frodo and Sam. And Elijah and Sean… *puddle*
> 
> One part will have a possible Squick-maker _Extraordinaire_ which cannot be classified under any of the usual headings, and is probably completely apocryphal, anyway (it does not affect either of our heroes. Except indirectly. And transiently). In which case, I can only advise any stray male who may be reading to steer clear, or at the least to read with one sympathetic hand guarding a particularly valued portion of his anatomy.
> 
> I have included and updated urls for items possibly unfamiliar to a modern reader; these were currently available as of July 2012. Thank heavens for Wayback - many were no longer accessible otherwise!
> 
> There _were_ horse-powered dobby sets (the correct term) though there could be only forward motion, not vertical. Had you been blessed with great wealth, the year GAFFS was begun, you might have purchased what was believed to be [the last surviving one](http://web.archive.org/web/20050320094659/http://www.prestonservices.co.uk/fairgroundrides.htm)
> 
>  **NB** : I did try to find a synonym for the Joywheel which would make it sound a little less like a rather challenging and possibly risky sex toy - but in a more innocent age, that _was_ its name!
> 
> Posted between 03 March 2005 and 03 March 2010. Slow? _Moi_?

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Gaffsbanner-2.jpg)

The Three-Farthing Stone is, by common consent, as near to the centre of the Shire as makes no difference; thus, by long custom, those fields between the Stone and the East Road are set aside to common ownership as the only possible place to hold the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show. This mouthful has been affectionately reduced by all to GAFFS, since a long ago recording clerk tired of inscribing the whole in his elegantly flourished but terribly time-consuming copperplate.

In mid-Wedmath there may be a pause from harvesting. With much gathered safely in, more to come and a deal to be thankful for, Shire folk bring the fruits of their diverse labours, and come along to mark their successes, test their strengths, compare their livestock - and simply to enjoy themselves.

Hobbits journey from every town and village of the Shire, and the residents of Bywater and Hobbiton – the two nearest villages – have grown very used to their sudden annual popularity with relatives from the outflung corners. Those who have spent days on the road are reluctant, once they arrive, to sleep longer under canvas; for why should they disburse funds for a place to lie, when they have kin upon whose sense of duty they may prevail? And at inns and alehouses for miles around, the sadly _un_ related take rooms for all three days, thus more than compensating the proprietors for their losses to the beer tent on the Showground. Indeed, accommodation is in such great demand (lest the weather be less than clement) that those with an eye to profit rather than blood tie or friendship are known to let out mere spaces on the floor of smial, cottage, barn or mill.

Those with livestock to show may set off from home – or send them off in the charge of a trusted herdhobbit – as much as a week or two in advance. A leisurely journey along the drove lanes means that they arrive in good condition and well-fed – hobbits as well as stock, for fodder is still plentiful along the way for the latter, and there are wild fruits (and especially early mushrooms) aplenty for their guardians. Owners and herders alike appreciate this change in their day-to-day lives and the unaccustomed freedom of the road; it is enjoyable for its novelty for once in a while though the comforts of home are greatly to be preferred in the long run (and most particularly when it rains on their travels).

Half the inhabitants of the Shire will be present at the Show – and the half necessarily left at home will have arranged for the product of their labours to be represented still, brought along by some luckier neighbour. Everyone wishes to play a part, however small, and a rosette brought home proxy is an accolade to be treasured nonetheless. The fortunate moiety often travel in groups, in strings, in convoys and in caravan - by wagon or cart or living van, with pack or with hand-cart, mounted or on foot – all of them converging on this one point, just a little to the south of the Great East Road.

For one week of Wedmath, these fields are abuzz with activity that unfurls a creeping mantle of great tents, small booths, and livestock penning in varying sizes and strengths. An outdoor kitchen is erected, and the fire-pit readied for the last evening’s celebratory roast. At the centre of all is the wide oval show ring, large enough to accommodate several classes at once; and a large quantity of straw bales sits snugly under cover to provide seating for the spectators and bedding for the exhibits besides. Further out, shorn fields await sheepdog trials or ploughing matches, or simply to accommodate the varied means of transportation that will bring the many visitors.

Should an eagle pause in his flight, the Shire might somewhat resemble a wide and tenuous spider web, its crowded roads and lanes and green ways running inexorably now, all to this one thrumming centre - the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show.


	2. GAFFS Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a deal to do, to see and to enjoy before ever the Show begins…
> 
> Rating: Pretty much G

‘Goodness! I never realised just how much effort goes into the Show even before it begins.’ Frodo finished tying up his row of hurdles and dragged a grubby shirtsleeve across his forehead, leaving a grey smear through the sheen of sweat.

‘No reason you would, sir, without you came aforehand, like this. No more do most folk, but that’s as it should be,’ Sam said. ‘The Show’s a few days out of their daily lives – a little holiday from one kind of work - though there’s enough to see and to do here, to make it seem like work of another sort, to get round it all! They don’t need to see the work it made for others – though even that’s a good kind.’ Sam fastened off his last knot, and stepped back. ‘Well, now, that’s as fine a set of pens as any goat could need, and I reckon as we’ve earned our lunch, don’t you, Mr Frodo?’

The washing benches were already assembled and the ewers even had water in them, warmed a little by the sun. It was the work of minutes to sluice away dirt and stickiness alike, and turn sharp-set appetites to thoughts of the basket packed for them by Mr Bilbo - at half past dawn, Frodo had insisted sleepily, to Sam’s tolerant smile at his usual difficulty with early rising.

Frodo had inevitably fallen back into a light doze on the short ride of many stops and starts, as the wagon picked up all of the eager volunteers from Hobbiton and Bywater. Some had smiled knowingly and others frowned at his indolence. Young Mr Baggins had obviously taken a maggot into his head as to helping with GAFFS this year, their expressions agreed, but he’d soon tire of work his hands weren’t fitted to. In face of such witnesses, Sam had to school _his_ hands to provide only polite and respectful support, rather than the gentle caring they longed to give, when Frodo’s head sagged sideways onto Sam’s shoulder, and Sam must hold him, lest he slip further and hurt himself against the wagon side.

On arrival, Sam had waited until most of their companions had disembarked from the wagon before gently shaking the hobbit who, oblivious to care or stare alike, slept snug now against his chest. And though Sam could happily have sat there in bliss all day, it was not to be; too many people would talk, for a start, and Sam had no wish for his master to suffer such tittle-tattle. Also, there was work to be done. Frodo proved more amenable to being woken than Sam had feared. He blinked twice and gave Sam a most wonderfully slow, drowsy smile, before the clatter of other hobbits hefting out tool boxes and heavy hammers as well as kit bags and lunch boxes brought him to full wakefulness and pushed him suddenly to his feet. He lifted down the picnic basket, and had it stowed safely in a shady spot to await lunchtime, whilst Sam was still stumbling from the wagon; he definitely needed a moment or two to catch his breath from that smile, before he could collect up their other belongings.

They retrieved the basket now from its protective shade (the sun was remarkably warm, even for Wedmath) and Sam was about to suggest a place by the hedge to enjoy their picnic, when Frodo proposed a more interesting notion.

‘Wait – I think we should have lunch on one of the carts, Sam. Right by the gate there, so we can watch everyone coming onto the showground.’

There was no doubt that there would be plenty to see, for the lane was filled with the steady flow of hobbit families on wagons filled to the brim and often a little over; hobbits with laden pony or handcart, the occasional small flock of sheep, chivvied by an eager four-footed guardian who scarcely needed his hobbit along at all, it seemed, or a group of ridden ponies. In they poured through the wide gateway, the numbers swelling as the day drew on but dispersing so quickly that the field scarce looked to be much fuller than before.

Frodo lay back on the floor of their chosen vantage point, now, stretching muscles unaccustomed to the lifting and carrying he had done that morning, and flexing fingers made tender by the constant pull at coarse baling twine. Sam concentrated on spreading Bilbo’s provisions between them, using the wagon bed as a table. There were flat breads, stuffed with lettuce and cheese and a dash of savoury pickle, and flaky rolls whose juicy filling of chopped pork was redolent of onion and more than a hint of sage; there were pasties, crimped high over a succulent mix of carrots and taters and well-flavoured mutton, in a gravy just thick enough to hold all together. To follow were glazed apple tartlets and meal-bloomed plums, ripe enough to burst their nectar at first bite; with a light, sweet cider to wash down the whole.

For a while all attention was bestowed rather on this most deserving of repasts than on the throng of hobbitry entering purposefully before their eyes, and arrivals received but a passing glance. Once the edge had been soothed from their hunger, however, they began to mark the newcomers. More hobbits attended GAFFS than any one of them would see in a month of Highdays, by the normal run of things. Amongst them, some would be acquaintances, and a few, friends, for whom a polite nod or a cheery greeting might be appropriate; more were strangers, and held all the fascination of the unknown.

Of particular interest were the brightly apparelled Travellers in their equally gaily painted living vans – rare hobbits, these, dark of skin and hair and eye, and in want of no settled home. They wandered the Shire lanes from Greenholm to the Hay Gate, Long Cleeve to Sackville, and beyond. They were traders, tinkers, horse-copers and much else besides, and could turn a hand to any seasonal task on the farms through whose lands they passed. They made and bartered and mended, hunted, trapped and gathered for their living. Some ventured east to the Breelands, and some into Buckland and as far south as Sarn Ford, bringing choice spices, dwarf-wares, and other precious rarities into the Shire. Their goodwives sold flowers fashioned of coloured paper, clothes pegs or hedgerow simples, and made exquisite lace; and if one or two were known to have the Second Sight, their skill at the service of a coin, there were more who had it not and sold it still.

Idle speculation, as to what it might be like to live a life always on the road, led eventually to Frodo’s idler question as to what Sam would miss most, were he to take to roaming thus. His answer must of course be ‘a garden’ and not the more honest _‘I’d make do with a couple of flower pots, sir, provided that …’_ but it seemed dangerous even to finish the thought with Frodo right there, even if he did seem (after the one sharp glance) to be rather more interested in the passing crowds that in Sam’s answer. 

‘So, what would you miss, sir?’

‘I, Sam? Not a lot, I shouldn’t think. Room to spread out books and papers everywhere, perhaps? A big enough library to choose them from, when you look at the space there _can’t_ be, in one of those vans! The convenience of a hot bath on a cold night, I suppose.’ He paused as though considering the matter further, and eventually added, carefully, ‘No, I should think it would be perfectly possible to live life like a snail and be more than content, provided that…’ 

In _this_ pause, Sam’s heart felt to give a great bound within him. He wanted to but dared not look up to see Frodo’s face when he went on -

‘Provided, of course, that one had the right person with whom to share one’s shell.’

 _Oh_. 

Sam’s heart didn’t just come down from its deluded leap, it kept on sinking until he could almost feel its ache chilling his furry toes; for of course Mr Frodo couldn’t really be expected to know that the sentence should end, _‘…you were there with me.’_

He tucked his head down to hide the disappointment. The more he thought about it, the more that Frodo’s words had seemed to contain a question; almost as though he were asking Sam’s advice – or approval? But there was no way in which Sam could feel himself equal to a conversation on the topic of whichever lass Frodo might choose to share his life with, wandering or otherwise. He had been practising against the inevitable hurt when a bride was finally brought home to Bag End; to be asked to anticipate the event would be too much to bear. His back to throng and master both, Sam climbed down to begin putting away the last of their meal, needing to busy his hands whilst his hurt subsided.

There was a waiting sort of silence, which neither of them seemed ready to fill, until Frodo said, ‘Goodness, she looks to have her hands full!’ His words contained more than just a hint of the subject being changed completely.

Sam turned to see the passing of large wagon, piled high with baskets, crates containing discontented fowl, possibly a goat or two, by the querulous _“Meh!”_ from within, and a family of mostly over-excited children. Mother and father nodded with stately politeness as their ponies trotted by.

 _She_ was one of three tweens aboard the wagon, a fresh and pretty lass with a sprightly air under coppered curls. Whilst her brothers seemed to have charge of goods, livestock and the larger children, her sole care was obviously for the small lad who writhed in her arms like a worm on a hook and would likely be in severe danger, if he wriggled free, of being crushed under hoof or wheel in the gateway.

As though he’d heard what Frodo had said, the lively little hobbit spilled from his captivity to land abruptly at Sam’s feet. He was accompanied by a shrill cry of ‘Ranly!’ and another of ‘Catch him, sir, please!’

Sam grabbed for the youngster, realising immediately why the escape had been as sudden as the cork from a well-shaken bottle of beer - a great deal of pressure was needed to keep him in hand. Short legs still running in place, the lad struggled in stubborn, red-faced silence, as Sam dangled him a good foot above the ground and walked after the wagon, matching its pace easily to heft the child back into the arms of the lass who was reaching for him.

‘Ranly! You really must stay until we get camped, otherwise you’ll get lost on this great field, and you won’t like _that_ , come dark,’ she scolded, then turned her attention to Sam. The reproachful face melted to a wide and flattering smile. ‘I cannot thank you enough, sir, for returning this rascal to the bosom of his family,’ she said, managing to sound composed and just a little flirtatious despite the squirming assemblage of arms and legs now gripped tight within her lap.

Sam muttered, ‘’Twas nothing, pleased to be of service, miss,’ turned beet red, bowed and stepped back. He scarcely noticed the appraising looks he was receiving from her older brothers, and let the wagon carry her away without a second thought as he returned to finish his task.

Frodo had obviously watched the whole interlude with just that look upon his face. ‘I expect she was even better, close to, was she not, Sam?’

‘Better, sir?’ Sam hadn’t caught on to what Frodo might have meant.

‘Prettier. With those curls and that little rosebud mouth!’

Sam sighed inwardly. Frodo was surely just teasing, but he had definitely brought up the subject of lasses, casually but more than once, these past weeks, so that Sam was the more convinced that he must finally be smitten with a particular one, which would be a pity, since… Well, it was only to be expected, Sam supposed; except that he couldn’t remember the last time Frodo had shown even the slightest wish to be alone with a lass.

All hope to the contrary and for several reasons, he had come to the conclusion that this might be why Frodo had been so keen to attend the Show from start to finish this year, instead of visiting each day and going home to a nice comfortable bed at night as he had always done before. The fact that he hadn’t to play host to Master Merry must have a bearing, of course, but if the lass Frodo had a fancy for were one whose family might also be staying over, perhaps he thought that he would have chance to catch her alone for a while, in the warm darkness of Wedmath? And since he’d a mind to wooing, he must be wanting Sam to find a lass of his own, too; which was typically generous of him, but… 

‘Maybe she is, sir,’ he said non-committally, and his inward sigh was the more heartfelt this time.

And it would, after all, make a very nice change for Mr Frodo to have the freedom to choose and to chase for once, since he had himself been in the position of the one hunted, probably since first becoming Mr Bilbo’s heir, from what Sam could remember. 

Sam had reckoned that, with three sisters of his own, he knew a fairish bit about the predatory wiles of a lass on the lookout for a lad. But until he understood the lengths to which some lasses were prepared to go, when they’d their sights set on the vacancy for a Mistress at Bag End, he knew he’d not properly grasped the meaning of the word _shameless_. He had every sympathy with Frodo’s reluctance ever to remain alone with one of them; he’d even come to feel a certain satisfaction in knowing that the arrival of a youngish gift-bearing female visitor in Bilbo’s absence would mean the immediate calling of his name to come and make tea for them, as though Frodo were too helpless to do for himself. There was always a frantic waggling of eyebrows and a discomposing flash of blue in a half-laughing but wholly heartfelt plea for protection against being left to the probably less than tender mercies of one with the light of courtship full in her eyes. Although an action for breach of promise was a rare thing in the Shire, it had been tried with Bilbo more than once in days gone by, and he had obviously instructed his nephew that the simplest way to avoid the same, if he were not there and a female _was_ , was to keep Sam by him at all times.

‘Well, she certainly had a smile for you, Sam,’ Frodo was saying now. ‘If you stop blushing, and play your cards right, you’ll have at least one maid seeking your hand for the dances on the last night!’

‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled, wishing he had the temerity to say, _‘I’ve no mind to dance at all if…’_

He’d rather sit out and take in a good deal of ale and a pipe or three, than have to watch Frodo dance with the lass of his choice. It wasn’t as though he didn’t enjoy dancing – he’d grown in both liking and skill whilst being used by his sisters as a partner with whom to practise their steps to perfection. (Sisters had indeed their uses in return; it was a fact that they had friends who were perfectly willing to teach a growing teen a few things about kissing. And one or two of them rather more than was strictly proper, and not just about kissing; though Sam had been in neither mind nor state to complain, afterwards - it was a matter of teen honour to gain such experience.) He might have enjoyed a turn around the dance square with any lass, but not if Frodo were to be there, his love in his arms.

~~~

‘So, what is there for us to do this afternoon?’ Frodo asked, biting into the next to last of the plums – the other he passed to Sam, who must perforce look up to take it. Golden juice spilled from one corner of his mouth, and no ignoring it from this angle, neither. Sam turned his eyes resolutely to the matter of packing away the small amount of food they had left. _Just about enough for a mid afternoon snack,_ he thought loudly, insistent enough to drown out any other that might be trying to nudge into his consciousness, with no true relevance to their forthcoming activities. He disposed of his own plum quickly, flicking yet another stone discreetly into the hedge, with a brief notion as to keeping an eye open next year for any seedlings that might have popped up. When Frodo regarded his empty fingers, wiggling them rather stickily, Sam merely passed over one of the damp cloths Bilbo had thoughtfully included against just this eventuality.

The thought of his elder Master steadied him, bringing something else to mind as he wiped his own hands. ‘I thought Mr Bilbo had promised you to Mr Marchbanks as scrivener for the payments, sir?’

The pitches were marked out with whitewash on the grass, and dues paid according to whether a trader occupied a single or multiples together. Already they were filling up, as hobbits spread sheets upon the ground for their wares, or set up tables and awnings, or small booths for the more affluent vendors who wished to stay over in a modicum of comfort whilst also keeping an eye on their goods.

‘Drat – I had forgotten that! Well, he may have claimed that I was needed because Matt Marchbanks would be too busy talking to remember to collect the money, but I suspect that Bilbo may have known better than I just how much I would be aching by now,’ Frodo said ruefully. ‘It seems I really am as useless as folk would have me, Sam. So, what will you be doing?’

‘Not useless, sir, never! Look how much we got done atween us this morning - them pens have never gone up any quicker than that, nor any better, neither!’ This was no more than truth, but Sam could tell the disappointment Frodo obviously felt in himself - perhaps he _had_ caught some of the sceptical glances that morning? Sam rushed on, wanting to reassure him. ‘We did a good job, Mr Frodo, sir - both of us. And there ain’t no-one I’d rather have worked with and that’s a fact.’ He blushed at his own vehemence then, and sought to answer Frodo’s question more temperately. ‘For this afternoon, sir, there’s a bit more to do for the stock yet, and then I reckon the wagons must all have arrived from Buckland by now, so there’ll be the Rides to set up in a while.’ He closed up the straps on the basket.

‘I’ll take that and put it with our things, then, and go in search of Matt.’ Frodo sighed. ‘I have nothing at all against him as a person, but as a conversationalist – and particularly if one must spend an entire afternoon in his company - he leaves as much to be desired as Aunt Lobelia, if for different reasons.’

‘Well, sir, look on the bright side,’ Sam said, with a grin. ‘You’ll not be lost for what to say, for you’ll not get more than an odd word in edgeways!’ Though it might not be strictly polite to say such a thing, it was well-known that Mr Marchbanks could have talked for his Farthing against all comers.

‘Well, _I_ would much rather stay and talk with _you_ , Sam, but I shall see you later!’ He jumped down from the cart and was away whilst Sam was still blushing with pleasure to have his company preferred to that of one who might be a bit of a gabble-monger but was still a gentlehobbit.

He made his way over to the livestock area once more. First off, he was in demand for his ability to swing a sledgehammer, seeing that there was the rest of the stock provision to see to. There was a need for more secure penning to contain the pigs as they arrived; for awnings against sun and possibly even rain, over them and over the goat lines; for sturdy bars where the cattle would be tied for inspection, and for hitching posts for all of the Show ponies. Between swings of the heavy hammer, he caught sight now and again of Frodo amid the increasingly busy aisles as stalls and sideshows went up. On the whole he could not be sorry that he had been called to so separate a task; it was definitely as well that Ben Rooter was slated to hold the posts for him to hit, and not Frodo, for Sam knew that he could not have kept his mind on the task as it ought to be.

Setting aside that he would never have forgiven himself if the sledge had gone astray and landed on any part of Frodo (not that he had ever had a mishap of such proportions occur whilst he had been in charge of any tool), ‘twould just have been his luck to be so discomposed - by Frodo’s hands, pale and elegant around each post, by the flex of his muscles as he braced against Sam’s every downstroke, by the mere sight of him, mouth set firm, tongue just peeping out as Sam knew too well that it did when Frodo had a tricky task in hand - that he’d have been the more apt to miss altogether; or maybe he’d not even have had the strength to lift the weight at all in his distraction. Ben, a gawky tween with a red face, freckles and an irritatingly ready laugh, gave him not a second’s pause. Each blow landed fast and true as any, and the whole sledging contingent completed all of the necessary penning rather sooner than anyone had expected.

There was a pause for the quick refreshment of a cup of tea, if without the niceties of a leisurely teatime, and then every available hobbit was needed (and was more than keen) to give a hand with unloading and setting up the Rides. It needed a fairish few together to get all safe and ready, and as usual they made a competition of it, dividing into teams - slowest to get theirs up and running were to stand a round at the beer tent when it opened for business. It was challenge enough to make any job go quicker, so long as it was done right; and since the team leaders were those hobbits with passion and understanding for the way these things worked, they were keen as mustard to make sure that everything was secured proper. They kept their workers on their toes and no mistake, Sam thought, as a stentorian voice boomed out yet another imprecation against careless handling on the team adjacent to his.

These Rides were the pride and joy of Shirefolk and Bucklanders alike, being a shared venture with the Buckland Show committee; for Buckland also had its Grand Annual Show – GABS was held a few weeks earlier than GAFFS. (Though some lucky – and leisured – hobbits might attend both Shows, the competitions were jealously guarded, and for a hobbit who belonged in one show’s area to submit entries at the other was definitely frowned upon; exceptions were sometimes made, however, for those who lived in the Marish or certain parts of the Southfarthing.) The sheer volume of necessary spars, colourful sheet stuff and complex winding gear took a fair bit of shifting from the fine dry storage where these constituent parts made their home, in a spare cavern along by Brandy Hall. The Rides were brought out only for special occasions – the two Shows, and major celebrations such as Lithe and Yule, for which they were shared, turn and about.

They had been built a goodish time ago, and well-refined through the years. Quite who had first thought of such things was a matter lost to memory, though the honour was claimed vigorously by several families - and obviously the origins of the swing-boats had to be credited to Buckland as a whole, if not to any individual or clan. But any hobbit with the interest or skills to share might become a member of the Bucklanders and Shirefolk Rides Interest Group, that select society which lavished time and love upon them. Many a Basrigger, to the disgust of his wife, spent his holidays in Buckland, maintaining, painting, gilding and generally immersing himself in the rituals of the singularly unproductive but nevertheless enjoyable Ride. Sam had heard rumours of a new one in the making, which was to have seats hanging from ropes, and would spin around very fast. He’d known from childhood that if you tied a bucket of water by its handle and swung it in a fast circle, it would rise much higher from the ground than you thought possible - and the water would not spill but was somehow pushed down into the bucket. He wondered what that would feel like, and looked forward to finding out – perhaps at the next year’s Show.

Sam had been called for the team that had the setting up of the swing-boats. The A-frames - bright yellow with fancy cross-pieces curlicued over in red or green, with swirls of gilding everywhere - must be erected and checked with exceptional care, for they would be subjected to some serious strains. Many hobbits would be more than satisfied with the gentle to and fro rocking motion, and the feeling of swaying in safety above the ground - so much better than floating on water, for you moved just as fast as you meant to and no faster, and no deceitful currents to sweep you away, neither. Some, though, would be devoting powerful muscles and a great deal of energy to seeing exactly how high their little vessel could be induced to climb before falling dizzily back down, only to mount the opposite wave once more. Lovestruck lads would try to impress a lass by making their strength serve for both of them, or two youngsters take a boat and pull for dear life, ending up queasy as dogs, like as not. The sudden dip, leaving your stomach behind, was a sensation not to be had elsewhere, and greatly prized; queues formed early and waited long.

The work of construction went well and quickly; the blue and scarlet boats were hung in place, their sallies carefully fixed, the moving parts well-greased to make each pull rise the higher. They were all but done, Sam had thought, when he found one of the short ladders to be in need of a replacement step, just before completion could truly be claimed - and then the Joywheel team announced its victory with a slightly derisive cheer.

The vast disc of highly polished wood gleamed innocently now from a wide enclosure of straw bales; its cranking mechanism was housed without, lest the tendency for hobbits to be flung violently from their perches should result in injury against (or worse still, _to_ ) it. Sam was still not very clear as to how the turn of a simple handle – and not even all that fast – could pass through these ranks of wheels and cogs to make a harmless-looking wooden platform spin so rapidly. Ted Sandyman had once told him, in a rare, expansive moment – the sort that fell rather nearer to sober than sullen – that his dad’s millstones were turned in much the same way, claiming that the idea for the ride had come from his own granfer many times back. Sam found it difficult to credit that any Sandyman, even a long ago one, would have been so free with an idea which would bring pleasure to so many people, but perhaps he shouldn’t be uncharitable; Bell had always said to give the benefit of the doubt, so Sam tended to make the effort even where he weren’t entirely confident of success.

The most complicated ride to assemble was always the merry-go-round, and even with twice the hobbit-count of the other two teams for fairness, it was often the last to be completed. There were platform and canopy to erect, the one above the other; the strong central column to assemble, girdled with narrow strips of looking glass whose giddying reflections would make the Ride seem faster and even more exciting; and the brightly painted barge-boards to attach, high above, each bearing its part in the boastful, ten-sided proclamation of ownership and function: GABS AND GAFFS | PROUDLY | PRESENT | THE BEST | THE FASTEST | THE ONLY | GALLOPERS | IN THE SHIRE | BUCKLAND OR | MIDDLE-EARTH. (Sam’s Gaffer would still recall with a shudder the year that the Shire and Buckland boards had been transposed; the row had echoed from one GAFFS to the following GABS and back again. The mistake was never repeated.) All this was to do, before ever any colourful, high-stepping pony could be set exactly in his triple row, or the gilded chariot into its place. Above all else, there were precise distances to be laid out, so that careful connections might transform, through the mesh of ever more complex cogs and wheels, the working ponies’ steady round into speeding circles of happily whirling hobbit delight. 

With every spare pair of hands now helping, the remaining tasks were finished with speed and care, and the united teams gazed with satisfaction at their handiwork. It was a proprietary pride, for in their support for the Show, even the poorest of them could feel some small ownership of the gilded splendour before them.

Sam was collecting up spare nuts and washers, and pieces for which he had no name, only a large box, when he became aware that he was being watched; he turned to see Frodo coming towards him in the gathering dusk. 

‘Goodness, Sam,’ he said, looking at the three Rides, sprung up so fast where at noon had been only flattened grass. ‘You _have_ been busy!’ 

‘Well,’ Sam said, with a completely straight face, ‘I did have a _little_ bit of help, sir.’

Frodo laughed. ‘Yes, I imagine that you did, for I doubt these good hobbits,’ - he gestured widely to take in all those scattering now to put away tools and tidy the up last few stray, unused items – ‘would all be as content to watch you work as- ’ He stopped, then added quickly, ‘as to take part in so impressive an endeavour!’

Sam realised, in a quick rush of happiness, what Frodo had been about to say, though he had not liked to admit it for the many to hear. He had long enjoyed the fact that Frodo sometimes sought him out on clement afternoons, coming to sit wherever Sam was working. He would read or chant aloud, sharing the tales he knew that Sam appreciated so much - stories of elves and oliphaunts, of high deeds and great trickery, of true friendship and of love. But Sam had not known before that Frodo enjoyed watching him as he pruned out deadheads, weeded, or raked a seed bed fine. It could be but a poor and practical return for such entrancing delights but if, as it seemed, it contented Frodo, then Sam was made more than happy.

He handed in the box of bits and pieces to the hobbit who seemed most to be in charge, before asking, ‘How was your afternoon, sir?’

As they turned to follow the flow of hobbits towards the refreshment tent, Frodo pulled a face – an expression compounded of long suffering, relief, and mischief. ‘You simply cannot imagine, Sam, what it is like to be charged with the safe return of Matt Marchbanks _with_ the best part of the GAFFS funds for the next year!’ he said in a low tone, then leaned even closer to say, ‘I think it falls somewhere between the taming of a warg and child minding. Not that I intend ever to do either, but it may have been very good practice!’ The laughing whisper affected Sam in ways which were definitely not related to the information imparted, but the serious business of eating in prospect was a steadying influence, too.

There was a general bustle now, everyone aware at last of just how long ago and how brief had been teatime. The need for supper was distinct - and soon, for the shadows had grown long and melted into the ground, as the coming dark seeped through what remained of the day. Each of them hurried to ready him or herself, and to assemble contributions (and implements) for the meal to come.

Though the evening was warm, a bonfire had been lit, as much for its light as for the roasting of apples and potatoes, or the baking of dough twists for which sticks also were also thoughtfully provided, ready-peeled. Long trestles were laid out to receive the many packages, bowls, trays or pans containing foodstuffs of every description – variety, if not quantity of any one dish, was the order of the night. Sam had warned Frodo that this evening’s meal was traditionally shared, everyone giving what he or she could. Many brought whilst others cooked - on their mettle, and out to show just what could be done here with a few taters, some fresh peas and a ham hock, or a string of onions and a lump of ripe yellow cheese. Sam’s offering was a generous crock of May’s celebrated apple fluff, and Frodo had provided a keg of the Dragon’s finest, sent along in good time to settle. Platters, pans and bowls emptied rapidly, and a contented sort of half-silence fell, as hobbits found themselves places to sit with their varied platefuls.

For Sam, the food became special, not merely for the novelty and variety of its constituents, but for the fact that he and Frodo had on their plates small portions of many and various things, each being far too good not to share. When Frodo suddenly said, ’Mmm – you must try this, Sam!’ and nudged insistently at Sam’s lips with a pastry-covered morsel, Sam could do no other than open his mouth to receive it.

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

‘Thank you, sir,’ he mumbled, far more moved by the accidental brush of skin to his lower lip than by the taste of whatever he had chewed and swallowed blindly.

‘These are nice, Mr Frodo,’ he said, a minute or two later. Between finger and thumb, he picked out the finer of the delectably creamy balls of curd cheese on his plate. Greatly daring, he held it out towards Frodo’s mouth, though not so bold as to approach more nearly, in case-

He barely stifled a gasp as Frodo leaned forward to take it delicately between his lips; soft warmth closed around Sam for mere seconds. Frodo said ‘Mmm!’ again, but Sam had completely forgotten what he had offered, speckling of chopped chives and dusting of fine mustard notwithstanding. 

In fact, Sam had little real appreciation of any of the tasty tidbits they shared, with fingers as well as by spoon, though he knew they took turns to sip from a mug of thick and flavoursome pea soup. All this, between Frodo’s necessarily close-whispered telling of the tale-teller’s shortcomings as a collector of dues, and his own laughing claim to have single-handedly saved GAFFS a fortune’s worth of fees which might have gone by the board had Frodo not been there to curtail the stories — ‘For he’d be talking still!’ 

He grinned at Sam, then. ‘And if I don’t stop going on about it, you will be wishing as fervently that _I_ had gone home for the night, too!’

‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t wish that!’ Sam had a distinct desire to sleep _beside_ Frodo, though he might never sleep _with_ him; just to know him close and perhaps to feel, no matter how foolishly, that he might protect him as he slept. 

By the time that the ale keg was finally broached, Sam was definitely in need of the thick dark liquor for its soothing effect, the company being all agreed as to its excellence in this respect after a hard day’s work. As they perched on the ring of bales around the fire, or simply lounged on the grass, mugs were raised high - to their benefactor, to the Show Committee, to themselves as labourers, and to the success of each and every single one of them in whatever competition he or she might undertake this week. There was a general lighting up of pipes to accompany the ale, and a stretching of tired limbs, every hobbit conscious now of a day's well-given labour. News was murmured back and forth, of all the happenings in the separate Farthings, since last most of them had met.

The singing didn’t actually _begin_ , as such.

In the warmth and contentment of the evening, the rumble of speech became a steady humming, and the hum slipped smoothly from rhythm to rhyme; melody rose elsewhere to meet it, as one hobbit took out a penny whistle or mouth organ, and another fetched his drum, or a set of reed pipes or an old and cherished fiddle – and though no-one had started it, the singing had begun.

There were old favourites like _The Season’s Round_ , known Shire-wide; they told of toil and skill and pride, and of the ordered pattern of country life, and were roared out hearty and bold. Others were sung only in their own small part of the Shire: a shepherd of the White Downs might chant the long ago heroism of his kind against winter-ravening wolves, or a hobbit wife from Needlehole sing the sorrowful tale of a faunt lost to the Rushock Bog. Few of the Travellers had joined the throng, but one gave the mordantly funny _Dog and Ferret_ song, mostly known up Greenfields way, and another led the company in the rousing ditty that celebrated _The Barley Mow_ , to the clink of many mugs together. There were several offerings from the small group of lasses, their high clear voices rising together, to tell sweetly of love and parting and faithful waiting, as sad still at reunion as before, it seemed.

But the mood was more for merriment tonight as song followed song and each hobbit did his best for the honour of his Farthing and the Shire itself. It was a pair of Whitwell brothers, carters by trade as well as by name, that stepped forward to give a truly saucy rendition of _Wop She 'ad It-io,_ known and widely frowned upon by the proper and so much enjoyed by everyone else; they drew out the choruses rarely, with winks and nudges on slyly meaningful notes. _Old Toby_ , the pipeweed round originally from the South Farthing, was a popular choice, and taken at a laughing, breathless pace - basses chasing sopranos chasing tenors, chasing those who weren’t quite sure what they were, but really liked to sing. And ever and again, the voices would rest whilst the fiddler played a soaring aria that was the song of the nightingale, or maybe a pair of fiddles would suffuse the air with the lonely yearning at the heart of the curlew’s cry. More often, they would be joined by pipes and drum to whip up a lively jig; though tonight was for song and not for dancing, for all that a tween or two might jiggle about by the fire, and feet all around the circle tap out the cheerful beat.

There were few here that hadn’t their craft sung for them – Sam was a little disconcerted, as always, at the amount of suggestion that could be wrung from his own calling - and there were fewer songs still that didn’t mention the love of a lass sooner or later, despite such down to earth beginnings. Sam had noticed this before; only natural, he supposed, work and marriage filling most folks’ lives as they did. Most hobbits settled with a lass, though without suffering any of the trials of which so many songs told. For most it was one they’d always known, and large families followed as a matter of—

Sam’s eyes widened suddenly, as his musings – to a lively air that told of a gullible hobbit, a sack of turnips and a small, spotted pig – took his gaze a little way over to the right. Barely visible on the edge of firelight, came a gaudily-dressed Traveller to meet a lad that Sam had worked Harvest with a time or two, that lived at Netherfold, next farm but two from the Cottons’ place. To share a kiss so readily on this first night of the Show had to mean that this tryst was long-arranged; and to be kissing so desperately, whilst still within sight, argued the sort of parting the lasses’ songs had told, maybe since last year’s Show. But the dusky arm that slipped round Tilsom’s waist, as the two broke apart at last to smile at each other before disappearing into the dark - that arm was as muscular as Sam’s own, and the Traveller no lass but a sturdy and handsome lad.

Well, there was a thing Sam had never realised. Til’s ma and pa would be mightily disappointed when they knew, he thought, for Til was an only son. Though two daughters and their husbands lived-in and worked the farm, raising families to follow them, there could be no doubt that a son’s sons, name and land indissolubly linked, were a farmer’s deep-set need. Sisters must be a good thing in such case, when there was no brother willing to take up the duty. Sam gave silent thanks that he was the youngest lad in a family of many, all of whom were likely to or already set to wed; not to him the urgency of fulfilling the family's need for an heir to its name, should he choose otherwise. Lucky Til, Sam thought, to be so well loved.

Part of Sam’s own problem - what made it so impossible to say... to _ask_ \- was that he’d never had the slightest reason to suppose that Frodo would even consider the love of another lad. Sam knew about the importunate lasses, first hand; and he’d heard a whisper or two, from gossips weighing up the succession, of Mr Frodo having been quite a sportive hobbit in days gone by, presumably before caution had caught up with him. But lads had never been mentioned, not once, much though Sam had kept his ears open. Well, he’d given never a thought to any other lad, himself. It didn’t seem to matter, lad or lass – this was only Frodo.

He wondered then if Frodo had seen the couple, and if he had, what he might think. He was Mr Bilbo’s heir – a most serious matter, this, when the property and obligations would have passed to the Sackville–Bagginses, but for his adoption. And Frodo _needed_ heirs to carry forward both name and Mastership; no convenient sibs for him. Sam’s own dreams mocked him, now, and he wondered yet again about the tryst he was expecting, dreading, here at the Show. He sighed quietly. 

There was a whole giggle of lasses, sitting directly across the circle from them. Sam recognised a few, one of them the lass with the little brother; he suspected she might have smiled right at him, and ducked his glance away, in case. He was quite sure that several of them seemed to be eyeing his master; well, why would they not? Bag End was truly irrelevant when Frodo was warm and flushed like this in the firelight. When he turned his head sideways a little to steal a look, as unobtrusively as he could manage, he thought that Frodo was watching them, as though he might be searching for one maid in particular. Then his brows raised slightly, and Sam thought he must have found the one he was hoping to see. He looked down quickly at the mug in his hand, waiting for Frodo to excuse himself and wander off casually as other lads were doing now, if the lass they’d an eye to slipped quietly out into the dark.

But Frodo carried on swishing his beer mug slightly in time with the songs, joining in where he knew the words, making never a move from Sam’s side. He didn’t look over until Sam gave him a gentle nudge, raising his mug, the question clear. His lips clearly formed the words, ‘No, thank you, Sam, but you go ahead,’ as his eyes flicked across the circle and then back to the singer who was giving his all to the latest ditty.

‘Nay, sir, I think if I have any more I’ll be up and down all night like a raisin in a glass of wine, begging your pardon, and I’m needing my rest, tonight!’

Frodo didn’t reply, but smiled instead, and threw himself into the choruses to the tale of the silly hobbit who ploughed with a team of rats, harrowed with a toothcomb, and reaped with his penknife, until at last (to no-one’s surprise) he died, undoubtedly of starvation from his singularly unproductive farming practices. And perhaps Sam had been wholly wrong about the lass, for Mr Frodo now looked – as most of the hobbits present - to be bent on getting as much enjoyment out of the last few songs as possible. Sam gave up on speculation and joined his voice to Frodo’s with a will.

~~~

As always, a close to the pleasant evening was drawn with the same slow melody on the fiddle alone, whether lament or solemn blessing depended on the mood of the listener. It had been a long hard day of work for some and travel for others, and the next would be at least as busy, from dawn onwards. The gathering dispersed quickly, each hobbit tending to mug and dish and spoon, before seeking rest.

Those who had travelled here in their own wagons would sleep in or under them, but a tent was available – bed room and a place for their belongings at the cost of one penny for the duration of the Show - for herders and their helpers, and for anyone who could not afford the prices charged for space under a solid roof. It was lads only, of course, for no hobbit wife or lass made the journey without her family, or at the least a wagon with a few of the comforts and a little of the privacy of home.

‘I have never seen the showground like this, Sam, so quiet and with room to breathe,’ Frodo said, as they returned from the privies to seek their bed rolls.

There were only a dozen or two of other hobbits about now, for Frodo and Sam had hung back a little, helping others to lean the straw bales two by two against each other, to keep as much as possible from the overnight damp. The crowd had already been and gone; of necessity after the consumption of a nice sufficiency of ale throughout the evening, there had been a general shift that way, when the evening’s songs had come to an end. (Admittedly one or two hobbits made for a nearby hedge instead, which was frowned upon; though at least they had the sense to keep such practices well away from the kitchen and food storage areas.)

‘Aye, far too many folk at times, and that’s a fact. It’s best at night, and this is the best night for it, sir. Everywhere smells fresh and clean, ‘cause the grass mostly isn’t trampled yet, and the dew can still settle. Needed too, when it’s been as hot as today.’

‘It seems like – a different place, somehow – just a little to the side of the real thing—’ 

‘And that’s good?’ Sam asked, though he thought he knew what Frodo meant, and that real or not, there was nowhere else in the whole Shire he would rather be, right now.

‘All new experiences are good, Sam,’ Frodo began to say, but then—

_Meh!_

‘Listen!’ 

_Me-eh!_

‘That sounds a mite more insistent than it ought,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll just take a look--’

Frodo was at his back as he made for the goat pens. ‘You think that we have an escapee?’

‘Could well be,’ Sam stepped into the aisle between two rows and sure enough, skittering about from pen to pen, was an engaging little kid of the kind with floppy ears and a domed nose. Sam had once heard that the ears were so long because such goats came originally from very hot places, and needed to be able to protect their ears, and even to cover their nostrils, against blowing sand; he wasn’t sure he believed it - surely nowhere could be so dry and sandy that it blew about that bad? - but it made for a good tale.

The kid seemed glad of their company, and more than pleased to have new friends who liked to play tig but were nowhere near as skilled at it as she. 

‘We need a dead end to trap her!’ Frodo panted, after a time of futile chasing. 

‘Right, sir, you keep her busy while I get a couple of hurdles.’ Sam closed off one of the aisles neatly whilst the kid danced excited circles just out of Frodo’s reach. ‘Now, chivvy her this way, Mr Frodo, and we should have a better chance of— Got her!’ 

The kid was far stronger than her dainty looks might indicate, and one hoof caught Sam a painfully sharp blow to his knee. He sucked in a breath, but managed not to let go as Frodo took hold (not without difficulty) of her back legs. Somehow they hobbit-handled her into the pen which was so obviously missing an occupant for the cosy nest in its deep straw.

‘She wriggles worse than that lad I caught!’ Sam said, rubbing at his incipient bruise. ‘Poor little lass - I expect her mother is in the milking competition. She’ll have had to make do with a bottle and not be best pleased about it.’ As he spoke he was fetching up one of the spare hurdles, for the kid was definitely looking for her way out once more; as soon as these officious hobbits had taken themselves off, she indicated clearly, it would not take her long.

‘Milking competition, Sam?’

‘Well, how much milk a goat gives is part of showing her, sir,’ Sam said. ‘They’ll all have had their udders stripped out by stewards tonight, so when they’re milked in the morning, and again tomorrow night, that day’s worth of milk can win a prize for the goat, no matter how well she might do in the beauty stakes!’ He settled the hurdle across the top bars of the kid’s pen; Frodo found some baling twine and they tied her in securely, neatly foiling any future plans of escape.

‘How is it, Sam, that you know so much that I don’t?’ Frodo asked as they set off back to the sleeping tent. His voice was only half teasing.

‘No reason you should know that, sir, most folks don’t, only I palled up with a lad – Jess, his name is – one year, and his family shows them so I got to know a bit about it that way.’

‘I see. Do you have plans to meet up with him this year?’ 

And from the quiet question, Sam knew that Frodo had indeed seen Tilsom and his Traveller lad disappear into the shadows, that Frodo thought that he—

‘Oh, no, sir!’ It had to be said quickly. ‘Only to swap news when we cross paths, like, with his lass, too, I should think. She’s one of the Crabtrees from out Heesom way, Annie, I think they call her, though it might be Nancy. They keep goats, as well, I think it runs in families, and they tend to keep it that way.’ He was starting to babble a bit, but Mr Frodo had to know—

Sam stopped himself and drew a deep breath. This was all distraction from what he had really wanted to say, before. His longing for Frodo could never cloud his understanding of just how much he did receive, over and above any matter of payment.

‘I can only tell you about plain, homely things, Mr Frodo, such day to day stuff as I know. But you give me stories, sir, and that’s so much more. You show me such wonderful new worlds, faraway and beautiful as daydreams - terrible as nightmares, too, sometimes, but you make me see it all, the good with the bad - and – and you give me the thoughts to go along with it.’ Sam couldn’t have explained what he meant by that, but it was something he gave thanks for every day.

Frodo paused before stooping to pass into the tent, and to Sam he was suddenly as shimmery in the moonlight as any glade-bound elf.

‘I give you illusion and you give me the Shire?’

‘Something like that, sir.’

Frodo shook his head slightly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Sam, it’s a perfectly fair exchange, though I think that I gain far more from it than you,’ he said, and ducked into the tent.

‘Never!’ Sam whispered fiercely, and he followed Frodo under the flap.

He paused inside, to lace up the opening – it was a knack he used only this once in the year. He reckoned there could be few if any hobbits left outside, by now, and about time the flap were closed up proper for the night. If anyone were out so late and didn’t know this trick of lacing besides, then it would serve them right to have to find an empty wagon to sleep in – the weather was at least warm and dry enough for it, if they helped themselves to a batt or three of straw for comfort and cover. Almost all the floor of the tent was covered in blanketed lumps, now, and snores were beginning to penetrate the air quite forcibly from some directions.

There was still a mutter of voices here and there, along the two lines of tightly wrapped brown sausages lying neatly along the centre of the tent, where the youngsters had been put to bed earlier. A dusk curfew was strictly enforced, even for the teens. The smaller lads slept deeply, worn out by unwonted excitement; some of the older ones, as Sam had done for several years past, still lay wakeful in a silence of deep resentment, or hissed and plotted mischief for the day to come. They were kept in place by a grim elder, no less resentful than they of missing out on the camaraderie, though he doubtless heard the singing well enough, and he'd not have gone short of food, nor ale neither. His watch ceased only when the sound of the evening’s revelry died away, and the tent was quietly invaded by the many hobbits seeking their rest.

Frodo was already kneeling by their things, noiselessly shaking out blankets, laying them side by side on the waterproofed sheet that Mr Bilbo had added to their packs that morning. A remnant from his travels, he’d said, and one he’d no longer need of. He’d had his fill of sleeping under stars, or even under canvas, he thought; though you never knew, he added, pensive suddenly. So long as neither of them rolled about much – for Frodo had been insistent that they must share - the sheet was wide enough for both to stay dry; in even the hottest weather, damp seeped clammily upward should a hobbit lie unprotected from the ground.

Sam had laid claim to this space for them when he dropped off their belongings early in the day, and it was chosen to be as far from the door as possible – less draught and disturbance if others came in late - and well away from the badly-cobbled roof patch he had noticed, part-way along one side slope. He wouldn’t trust _that_ to hold up under heavy rain – not that the weather weren’t set fine for the week, or he were no gardener. But all the same, he noted, he should mention to the secretary that it could do with a better mend before the tent were packed away again.

Opting to sleep in his shirt, Sam shed his breeches quickly, rolling them up tight and stuffing them into his pack of spare clothes, to serve as a pillow. Frodo watched and then copied him, for the moonlight soaked through the heavy canvas sufficiently for shapes and movement to be visible within the tent, if little more. As Sam crawled carefully between the folds of his blanket, he realised how very close he must lie to Frodo – though to move away would be both ungrateful and the very last thing that he wanted. He compromised by turning politely to face away. Frodo lay down beside him, not close enough that Sam could feel his breath but more than close enough to hear it; he was not surprised that it should so soon settle into the soft rhythm of sleep. It had been a longer day and busier than Frodo was used to; he had given it his all and a little more, Sam thought proudly - he deserved his rest. And if Sam found pleasure in knowing that he took it where he had earned it – at Sam’s side – well, Frodo need never know about that.

~~~

It was a while before Sam could sleep, however. His body might be exhausted, but his mind was a fair way from slowing down yet, not with Frodo sleeping a scant few inches behind him.

Mr Bilbo hadn’t agreed with Frodo stopping overnight, Sam mused. He’d seen a look – not exactly disapproving, _concerned_ were more like it - on the Master’s face, a time or two recently; and a week or so back, he’d caught snatches of a taut exchange that drifted through the kitchen window while he were under it sowing a new drill of parsley.

( _No cook ever has too much parsley_ , Bell had always said, and Sam was inclined to agree with her. These plants would grow to a useable size before the weather came cold, and might even last into winter, under cloches and this close to the protection of the smial wall.)

Frodo’s voice was quiet and oddly defensive, Mr Bilbo’s a deeper rumble, so that Sam had not caught all of their words.

‘- said to wait and I have _waited_!’

‘… the same?’

‘… dare ... I need-‘’

‘What?’

‘… simply Frodo …’

‘… better than that … why now…’

‘… free … only to _ask_ …’

There had been such yearning in the word that Sam realised at last that he was listening to what was never meant for his ears. He pulled himself up short, knowing that Gaffer would have had a word or ten to say if he’d caught Sam eavesdropping on his betters. Quickly, he left the drill – despite the fact that he had a very good idea that he might find on his return that his beautiful seedbed had been used for quite another purpose by the kitty that lived secretly under the shed, and had only just realised that the little tidbits were left out especially for her. (He was right, too, for he hadn’t had time to collect the dry holly prunings he usually scattered to protect a seedbed against such attentions.)

Anyway, he’d not really have been able to go into the kitchen just yet, not when Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo were obviously discussing something so definitely not intended for the ears of any other hobbit. Not even to request the vital boiling kettleful he needed to water the drill, so that the seed would not waste time going to the Evil One seven times and back before it sprouted. Sam took leave to doubt that it had anything to do with any evil one at all, and suspected instead that it were simply the jolt of warmth as made the seed shoot up the sooner – but whichever way, he couldn’t interrupt right then. By the time that he had gone to claim it, Frodo was nowhere to be seen, and Mr Bilbo was eyeing him sternly, almost as though he knew that Sam had been listening when he should not. 

The Master had continued to look worried, whenever he thought he was unobserved, and Sam wondered now if the sharp look Mr Bilbo had given him, before they left Bag End this morning, had been half a mind to ask Sam to look after his nephew with more than just the dutiful eye of any servant for his master. But that would have been shame to Frodo, being that he was the elder, and Mr Bilbo wouldn’t have done it to him. But whatever disquiet Frodo had on him, Sam could only hope that he might be permitted to aid him. He buried the fierce spark of jealousy as deep as might be, and refused to allow his mind to speculate as to whom Frodo might have waited for. Her family must be coming tomorrow, for Frodo to have spent all evening singing alongside Sam and not off in the dark somewhere with his lass. 

For this night, Frodo was _his_ ; unable to resist any longer, Sam rolled carefully to look at him. He lay on his back now, his profile clear and perfect in the dim light, lips slightly parted and his breathing softly peaceful. The temptation was strong in Sam to lean and kiss his brow - a benison, no more. Even in thought he dared no further, not with so many hobbits somnolent – or not – so close around them. Sam sighed then, and closed his eyes in a determined effort to sleep under the annual novelty of this great billow gleaming whitely above them.

A full harvest moon shone brilliantly over the Shire - so light that, had a certain hobbit decided to prove truth to the whispered ‘Mad Baggins’ designation, he might have sat at ease to read the _Hobbiton Advertiser & Bywater Times_ by it, without the least strain to his eyesight. It lit the whole field, clear as day – bleached hills of canvas and dark, shadowed wolds around the central space; from the huge to the modest, from the temporary home to the temporary craft-shop or sideshow. The ranks of painted ponies stood almost sinister in the silence beneath their canopy, garish colours bled all into night; the moon drew strange silhouettes of the swing-boats, and under its light, the sheen of the Joywheel was as innocent as any sweep of ice slickly inviting the unwary.

It lit the penned array of quietly cudding livestock awaiting judgement, and the tidy rows of carts and wagons lined up by the hedges here and beyond, in the adjacent fields where the draught animals settled for an easy few days of it. They were, for the most part, the homely and work-ready – not for them the niceties of the Show-ring, though their uses were many and some said better. There was not room enough for all to graze freely - they must be tethered to their carts or picketed in the field – but they would enjoy the same fodder ration as their more exalted fellows; and they would set off on their return journey refreshed, eager for their own fields and home.

An entirely new community had sprung up – under canvas and timber instead of good delved earth or thatch over brick and daubed wattles; flimsy against a sudden storm maybe, but home enough for this warm week of Wedmath. Over four short days, the hustle and bustle would match any village in the Shire, as these sleeping hobbits talked and laughed and sang, shopped and played, competed, commiserated, and simply enjoyed themselves. They dreamed now of praise for culinary accomplishment or an excellent hand at crafts, for skill in husbandry, or success in trial of eye or strength – and some of far more tender feelings - as the moon waned at last, the sky darkened and the new day grew near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration by my Beloved Beta Notabluemaia
> 
> For enquiring minds that need to _know_ :  
> The folk songs are borrowed - and bowdlerised too - from [The Copper Family](http://www.thecopperfamily.com/), of Rottingdean (pronounced Rot’ndean) in the county of Sussex; though Bob is gone now, bless him, the family carries on the tradition proudly. The improvident farmer is one of theirs, as is the one with the odd name - not merely my whimsy, for once!


	3. Show Day the First - Early

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dawn is savoured, entries are organised and Sam is more than a trifle discomposed
> 
> Rating: Still G

Each Show day began before the sun, with the stars still visible and the moon fading insubstantial into the paling sky. It began with the sharp smell of smoked bacon, savoury on the air and piled thick into bread rolls, washed down with mugs of hot tea on the quick ride to the cutting field. Even as the light grew, hobbits were already scything down the damp, heavy grass, others pitching it high to overflowing on the fodder carts. 

With livestock on site for days on end, arrangements had always to be made for their feeding. The hay made when the show fields were mown early was mostly sold for the Funds, with some kept back in case of wet weather and dire need at the Show, stored under weatherproofed sheeting in readiness. The second cut, to clear the fields for use, was fed fresh, as the animals arrived; thereafter, grass was cut each day, each Farthing having its appointed fodderer with responsibility for seeing the job done. This year, Sam’s position on the West Farthing’s behalf would be official, the previous holder having handed on the post; so that Sam would now receive the small stipend, instead of the ritual pat on the head with the promise of a toffee apple (which, to be fair, always did turn up) in exchange for his informal assistance. There was always sure to be such a tumble of excited lads, awake and eager to help with the scything and carrying – lads who should have been helping their fathers but were instead offering it elsewhere, no matter the task, simply to be out from under the parental eye - as he’d have done himself, not that many years back.

When they walked back behind the carts, the fragrance now was thick and fresh and sweet. ’Twere always worth it, Sam reckoned - setting aside payment of any kind - for the clean anticipation of the morning, and the novel sharing of each breathless dawn with companions he knew scarcely if at all. He had done this every year since Gaffer had allowed, and Mr Bilbo sanctioned, that he would be of use if he stayed over despite being only a teen. He had enjoyed it most, though, for the eager excitement of the stock. Beds presentable for visitors once more, crisp straw replenished, each animal smelled the advent of the grass; their moos and bleats and whinnies were eager. And there was really nothing quite like sitting with a fresh mug of tea, to watch the fodder fast disappearing from the racks as each beast chewed its share contentedly. 

He discovered this year that there was something far better. 

Although Sam had risen and dressed as silently as the other gatherers, Frodo also arose, unwinding drowsily from his blanketed cocoon, and electing unspoken to join them. He was never normally at his best before second breakfast, Sam knew, but you’d not have told it from this early rising. True, his skills were a mite rusty, to begin with, but he’d kept mastery of the exact flick that meant the fork pitched far and true with least effort; he must have learned that helping with harvest as a teen at Brandy Hall, Sam realised, whilst he himself was first learning his plants from Gaffer.

Frodo was quiet, sleep-tousled and flushed from the unaccustomed early exercise, right through the tea and the contemplation, to the wash and brush up for the day, when drowse was finally banished in the splash and shiver of cold water at the washing benches. And for Sam, the sharing of this dawn was suddenly an experience taken out of time, warm and separate, and he thought that this would be the memory of the show that he would keep closest, through all the days that followed. 

They spoke only necessary words, punctuated by Frodo’s smothered yawns, until work clothes were exchanged for clean shirts and respectable trousers - until Sam tried a small joke about patting _this_ helper on the head, and faltered at the promise, the toffee apple melted into nothingness by the sudden spark in Frodo’s eyes. 

Though the sun had risen now, under canvas the light was still dim, coloured cream and somehow slow; and Sam’s heart was hammering as it never had before, as he struggled to finish his offer. ‘Reckon—’ he swallowed, hoping to strengthen his voice, but it didn’t help much, ‘—reckon I'd best think of summat else, bein’ as you’re a mite old for such treats, sir.'

If he had believed that Frodo might help him out with a quick claim to a mug of ale, he had been wrong. The fingers buttoning the fine linen shirt halted, and his eyes rose to meet Sam’s, dark and deep. And the waiting silence stretched beyond contented sharing into something new. Sam’s thoughts tangled helplessly— _Why—? Should I—? Does he—?_ —all questing incomplete around a fragile hope he couldn’t yet name for fear it should be lost to him.

A pair of lads bumbled past noisily to reclaim some mislaid object from their belongings, and the moment was broken.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Sam managed. 

They finished dressing hurriedly, and shook out their blankets to the accompaniment of several more teens, all scattering bedding and arguing as to whose fault their terrible loss might be; but it wasn’t until the first cup of tea of second breakfast that Sam’s skin settled once more. Frodo had simply been tired and slow to answer, he convinced himself, and that weren’t no reason to go building smials in the air.

They had only begun to tuck into the food, when two more parties of hobbits returned from their morning tasks. Some carried wide baskets, trailing the earthy scent of mushrooms. Of the others, a goodly number bore small, hasped boxes, or sacks which seemed to move of themselves, and many balanced sticks over their shoulders from which dangled pairs of rabbits, already paunched and hung by their feet in the country way.

Frodo raised his eyebrows, not really at the mushrooms, Sam knew. There were few really useful mushrooming spots within the environs of Hobbiton (and a fair bit beyond) that Frodo wasn’t on at least a nodding acquaintance with, but happen he’d never seen a ferreting close up. 

‘The mushroom and ferreting groups, sir - we feed the livestock, they feed us all. Pegg’s warren’s nobbut three or four fields to the south of here – over that rise,’ Sam gestured loosely with the chunk of potato-cake, thickly smeared with deep golden egg yolk, that was currently impaled upon his fork. ‘By summer’s end, see, the coneys are fat and even a bit too plentiful, and can do with a good thinning out. Too many and too close underground all winter, and they’re like to get that nasty sickness as wipes out the half of them and leaves but a poor stock to start the new year. This way, there’s a quick, clean cull, Pegg has help with the job, the rabbits are the better for it in the long run and we all get a tasty meal or two out of it!’

‘That seems a most sensible arrangement, Sam, though I doubt that the coneys would agree!’ Frodo, too, was discovering that early exercise in the open air gave a fierce edge to hunger; his empty plate earned him a smile and another helping from the serving hobbit. 

‘The ferreters make a bit of a contest of it, so I’m told, sir, though I’ve not seen it, being as I’ve always helped with the stock-feeding. They can’t use their dogs, o’course – too many together - so they keep the hobs for later and just hunt the jills.’ Sam felt the question coming, and added, ‘The hob is bigger, sir, and you don’t want to risk him fouling up your catch net, when you ain’t got a dog alongside and you’re like to lose your rabbit. Yes,’ he mused, in the tone of one who would never quite understand it, ‘they get very fond of their ferrets, some hobbits do, so I‘ve heard. In fact, some of the boxes we saw on the wagons coming in will have been hutches for the ferrets, brought along in more comfort than the family! They can be a bit too keen for me, though, especially when you think—’ 

But Frodo was not destined to discover the cause of Sam’s sudden pause and shudder, for they were joined by some of the latecomers sitting down with their own breakfasts, each loudly proclaiming his beast’s prowess; and the conversation turned all on the morning’s successful hunt.

When at last unable to eat another rasher or safely face another cup of tea, the two rose from the table and made for the gate. It was thronged already with the bustle of early arrivals - a rush of day folk, all eager to register for the classes they’d set their sights on. Many would have travelled an hour or three already, and Sam knew that the refreshment tent would shortly be doing a roaring trade as second breakfast ran on into elevenses with lunch not far behind. Most of the proceeds of the Show were laid out for cooks and provisions; it being a truism that there was nothing quite like a day out to sharpen the appetite.

The day’s first bell echoed importantly over the Show-field; eight in the morning signalled different things on different days. This first day - having warned as always that animal pens and stock-lines should by now be tidy and all feeding equipment put away, fit to be visited - it told of the imminent start to the in-hand pony classes in the main ring; it advised that those wishing to enter the heats for the sheepdog trials should take their dogs to the second field over, and those for the ploughing competition should make for the fourth. It reminded each hobbit of what was afoot and where he should be to best advantage. 

But for today’s majority, _this_ bell meant that they had but an hour left to ready their entries before the Produce and Handicrafts tent was closed up and the judges began their deliberations. It was in the interest of these sections, of course, that their judging must be on this first day, whilst all was at its fresh-cut, fresh-gathered, fresh-baked best. _Jam and Ingenuity Day_ , said the irreverent, and it was a fact that long, clever hobbit fingers rarely tired of finding new occupation after a day of work – cosily by fire and lamplight in the long dark nights, or on endless summer evenings before the doorway of many a cottage or smial. 

There was no sign as yet of Gaffer and Mr Bilbo, who ought surely to have been here before now, and sound of the bell brought Sam’s quiet concern to an openly worried pacing.

‘Stop it, Sam. They’ll be here!’ Frodo grinned at him, and Sam almost lost hold entirely on the anxiety he’d thought he was hiding. ‘It will simply be the head-on clash between Gaffer’s slow-but-sure and Bilbo’s get-it-done-yesterday – you know that!’

‘Sorry, sir!’ But there were really no telling _what_ might have happened, with neither him nor Mr Frodo there to intercede— 

Then a smart bay pony trotted through the gateway at a brisk pace, and the grin became pardonably smug. ‘What did I tell you?’ 

Sam smiled sheepishly around his sigh of relief at the trap’s arrival, well-laden and with its passengers perched somewhat stiffly amidst a careful arrangement of boxes, baskets and plants. 'Morning, Mr Bilbo, sir! Morning, Dad!’

‘Good morning, both of you! How are you getting on, Frodo? Worn out after yesterday?’ 

There was a smile to accompany the words, but Sam thought Mr Bilbo had a sharp look for eachof them. He stepped forward to catch hold of Beechnut’s bridle and led the way through the press of bodies, leaving Frodo to find out what were up with his uncle, if anything beyond the fact that he’d a hard day’s judging ahead of him. 

As a judge, it was possibly questionable whether Mr Bilbo should be fetching other folks’ entries to the show at all, but once the trap halted, and he had extricated himself from the plethora of delicate items, he took charge of a wide, flat basket and made for the Horticulture tables. From the look on Gaffer’s face, Sam thought, it must contain his precious selection of soft fruits and Mr Bilbo might have been a reckless teen swinging it fit to spill the lot. Gaffer himself, freed from his own encumbrances, creaked down from his seat and set off after him a good deal more smartly than might have been expected, a square, velvet-covered tray clamped under one arm and a basket of carefully selected and cleaned vegetables over the other.

Frodo and Sam eyed the still plentiful array of things to be carried in, and then each other. Frodo raised a questioning brow.

‘No idea, sir - apart from the plants, and what's yours or mine - till the girls get here!’ Sam said ruefully.

He might not be privy to which sister owned to which of the various preserves, needlework and baked goods, but he did know that Marigold had entered the junior Flowering Pot Plant class with her favourite vibrant scarlet geranium - the one that obscured the parlour windowsill over winter and hampered their front step all summer; and that Daisy’s was an entry for the senior Non-flowering class: an exuberant Mind-your-own-business that curdled up and over in humps and prosperous bumps, to spill swirls of generously netted green over the warm orange clay. Whilst Sam acknowledged it to be as fine a specimen as ever he had seen, he kept his mouth firmly and prudently shut on the subject of its complete unsuitability to be entered by his eldest sister. 

‘If you’ll just pop this one over there, please, sir,’ Sam indicated the relevant section for Daisy’s plant, ‘I’ll nip down to the junior tables with Mari’s.’ It were taking a bit of a liberty, almost ordering Mr Frodo about like that, but time were getting on and he'd a deal to do before chucking out time; and Frodo’s smile showed he understood the haste which was both answer and excuse enough.

He edged his way through the crowds of chattering competitors – there were few who hadn’t an entry or three to their names, and the tent was packed almost to the roof, it seemed, with hobbits all wishing to arrange multiple entries to their best. Though at least half of them, Sam thought in his ever-more-nervous state, had finished fiddling with their own stuff and might have had better things to do than clutter up the aisles criticising other folks’s efforts, in despite of those who’d yet to make a start. He did, however, allow himself just a moment’s satisfaction from the knowledge that he had made it to senior level at last, where the competition would be fierce and worthy of the marvel he was entering this year. If ever he got the time to display it at all.

The thronging was thinner at the junior end, and there, waiting just where Marigold’s plant would need to be set, stood a group of lasses Sam knew by sight - Mari’s particular friends, all: Tansy Potter and her younger sister Sorrel, and the oddly named Missle - short for mistletoe or after the thrush, Sam had never been quite sure. Certainly Sse were pushy enough for the one and freckled enough for t’other, but he’d likely got it wrong and she were called summat else altogether. 

And, of course, there was Rose Cotton. He had nothing against Rose, really. Except… 

But all four met him with identically beaming smiles and questions only as to Mari’s whereabouts. And if Rose seemed a little more eager than the other three to help him deposit Mari’s plant on the table, her hand brushing over his in a way he could not think casual no matter her look of unconcern, he could choose to ignore it, and did. 

He turned to make his escape, reassuring them that Mari would doubtless be along shortly, since she and Daisy and May had walked from home. He'd scarce finished saying so when there was a call from beyond the tent, and there was Marigold by the trap, arrived at last and waving to them to help her carry in her needlework, baking or whatever else she had a mind to show this year. May and Daisy were fetching stuff out too, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief that he might, _at last_ , be able to get on with what so desperately needed doing.

He reported his name to the scrivener – a hobbit Sam didn’t know by name but tagged for a Took in some degree by the lilt in his voice and the sharpness of his nose – paid his pence, and received class numbers in return. It made sense to go to the crafts section, first; his carving were quick and easy enough to sort. Just needed standing (with due regard for effect) on the blue-grey swirl of watered silk Mr Bilbo had allowed him to borrow it was intended for a waistcoat one of these days, but had looked so perfectly like a shivered pool that Sam had been unable to resist making his request. He fancied he could tell the winner already, and it wouldn’t be him, that were for sure. Still, his entry looked none so bad and he were glad he’d brought it.

He arrived at the horticulture benches to find where his classes might be - at the quiet end of the section, thank goodness. And here already was his tray of flowers and greenery, lovingly covered with damp brown paper, awaiting his attention along with his little box of tools and extras. He felt a sudden flush of warmth, knowing that Frodo had seen his anxiety and tried to help by bringing them in for him. He was nowhere to be seen, for Sam to thank him; he’d be off getting his own entries sorted, of course.

Here was what Sam was _really_ wanting to win: Class 141 - _Corsage, not to exceed 3” by 2”_. He’d been preparing for this very class for several years, without ever knowing it, at first; ever since he’d first found the sport, on a sharply pink rose in the garden at Bag End, and Mr Bilbo had said that he might graft it for himself. Gaffer had been itching to help, Sam knew, but had left him to deal in his own way, though not without the benefit of support and advice when asked. And from that one stem, so different from its parent, so much more beautiful to his eyes and nose, Sam had grown a sturdy bush that now had offspring of its own, returned in gratitude by Sam to Bag End’s garden. 

Two days ago now, he had carefully cottoned all the flower stems and greenery he'd need, for the girls to cut for him in this morning’s cool dawn whilst he was grass-scything and carting. There was plenty of everything to choose from, barring his rose; though more bloom appeared with every season, Sam could tell it for a late maturer as roses went, and its full garden glory must wait to reveal itself for another year or three yet. Still, there were enough for his purpose today and a little over.

All the entries Sam had ever seen for the corsage class had been so obviously aimed at lasses: sickly pinks, faded blues and sad lilacs - no real _colour_ anywhere, and weren’t lads allowed to like flowers? Sam’s rose was an opulent, many-petalled crimson, so deep as to be almost black, with a perfume strong and sweet enough to dizzy your head and nigh on drown you in thoughts of velvet kisses and other things you’d so often to keep clamped firmly down inside your mind. 

He’d timed his pruning carefully, and deliberately sown seed of cornflower and of baby’s breath a mite later that spring, so he could be sure, come Wedmath, to have his rose at perfection, with a sharp contrasting blue to hand and those tiny specks of white to spark the whole. ’Twere a real shame no-one would get to wear it, for the central bud hovered on the cusp of full beauty, the next already unfurling its colour, and a third, smaller yet and mostly green, but plump with that same dark promise, peeping from within its mossy calyx. 

A corsage to be proud of, Sam knew as he settled each flower in its place, winding tissue thickly about the stems to hold in enough damp; he concealed it with a wrapping of ivy leaves and topped both with a lacing of fine pale blue ribbon _(‘But I shall want it back when you’ve done with it, Sam Gamgee, for it’s to thread through them mitts for Sarah’s babe!’)_ Cutting the ribbon tails to v shapes, he draped them, artfully casual, around his finished entry on its ruffled ground of soft pink satin - which also had another life, as a cushion cover on the best sofa at Bag End _(‘Of course, Sam – but what do you need it for?’)_ He misted the flowers carefully with rainwater from his hand-sprayer, checked that the tissue were plenty wet enough and stood back to look, certain now that he’d done justice to the picture he’d kept in his mind for so long. Though it were a pity that it had to be set here on pink satin, instead of… 

_No time for dreaming, Sam, just get on with it!_

One last glance and he moved on, sliding his tray along the table to where most of the entries in Class 142 ( _Buttonhole for a Gentlehobbit, single bloom with greenery_ ) were done and dusted already, and the crowd had thinned to naught. Only one other exhibitor was as far behind as Sam, it seemed. Despite his hurry, he paused in fascination as Mr Pasco Meridew bound a very impressive golden rose to its accompanying twist of feather fern, laid it on a square of black velvet, and then carefully allowed just one drop of water to slide down a blade of grass, and rest right in the centre of the largest petal yet unfurled. When he realised Sam was watching, he grinned. 

‘Gets the judges every time,’ he said. ‘They like the thought that it’s dew-fresh, even though they know it can’t be! That’s an unusual one you have there,’ he added, gesturing to the carnation that was Sam’s entry, ‘and very nice, too.’ Every bit as dark and glowing as the rose he used in the corsage, but with fine white lines and splashes on every petal that nigh on made it sparkle, Sam’s flower also had the true, rich clove scent. 

‘Aye, sir,’ Sam said, almost stuttering his thanks, unable to believe that one of the show’s acknowledged masters when it came to the floral classes (and a gentlehobbit to boot) was not only talking to him, on his first ever foray beyond the junior section, but even complimenting him on his entry, not to mention showing him a tip or two. As he laid his own offering on a ground of pooled white silk (his never-used, kept-for-very-best handkerchief, a gift from Mr Bilbo), Sam was thinking, but didn’t like to say, that the golden rose would be blown and fallen, long before the show was over. 

Pasco met his eyes, and nodded agreement to the unspoken remark. ‘So it will,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t win me the class, first, even against that flower of yours!’

‘Now _this_ —’ he lost interest suddenly in their entries, and reached into Sam’s tray to pick up the almost fully open rose that Sam had rejected from his corsage for the same reason he would not have used the beauty that Pasco was showing, ‘—this I like _very_ much. Where in the Shire did you get such a rose?’ 

Sam recognised the look: honest admiration, puzzlement, and not a little covetousness, and his reply was justifiably if bashfully proud. Within a very few minutes, he found to his astonishment that not only had he been invited to visit Mr Meridew’s garden, glasshouse and nursery beds – with a reciprocal invitation (subject to Mr Bilbo’s permission) to inspect his own achievements at Bag End – but he’d been promised starts of any plant that Pasco had the growing of, not even excluding the magnificent and rather rare crisscross fern, with which he was hoping to win the Non-Flowering Pot Plant class – _‘It’s a root I’m offering, mind, not just spores!’_ \- in exchange for slips of the carnation and a budded stock of his new rose in the fullness of time.

‘Goodness, Papa, what do you have there? That’s not one of yours!’ 

A small hand slid under Pasco’s arm, followed in short order by a pretty and very self-possessed hobbitlass whose hair was no froth of unruly curls like her father’s, but a straight and shining fall, the colour of ripening acorns touched by the sun. Its unusual satin swathe was gathered into a filigreed clip at the base of her neck. And very nice it were too, Sam supposed, if you hadn’t more of a mind to a rippling night-dark silk, yourself, no matter that you might never be granted the touching you so desired. 

‘Hello, Betony, my dear, all finished? No, definitely not mine – not yet, at least!’ From the indulgent tone, Sam knew at once that this lass were the apple of her father’s eye and could do no wrong therein.

‘May I?’ she asked, but without waiting for permission she took up the rose and sniffed intently. ‘Papa, this is so beautiful! It smells so deep and dark and wonderful, we simply _have_ to have one! And aren’t you going to introduce me to this personable young hobbit?’ She stared frankly at Sam for a bare second or two, and as their glances crossed, he caught sight of a peeping dimple on the left side of her mouth. Then she ducked her head in an exhibition – almost convincing – of maidenly modesty; but he were fairly sure it weren’t his shirt and weskit she were eyeing so closely now - nor his trousers neither, he thought uncomfortably.

‘Sorry, my dear. This is Samwise Gamgee, and he’s Mr Baggins’ gardener, up at Bag End in Hobbiton. Sam, this is my daughter Betony. Sam’s the one who grew this rose up from a sport and he’s going to provide me with a bush just as soon as is possible.’

‘Really?’ Betony dimpled at him fully, this time, and put out her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet so very _talented_ a gardener, I’m sure, Master Samwise! 

Sam was startled. She couldn’t really be outright flirting with him, could she, not with her dad stood there and all? He shook hands politely enough but found her clasp to be a bit beyond friendly, and let go as soon as possible.

Pasco looked at him, obviously noting his blush. ‘Don’t worry about it, Sam,’ he said. ‘She’s a spoilt minx, but she’s a good girl really.’

There was a certain light in Miss Meridew’s eye that gave Sam to doubt that. He might not have been a tween for long, and his experience with tweener lasses might be limited, but he did know that parents were seldom fully informed as to their offspring’s sportive tendencies. And this lass were a sight more forward to start with than any other tween he’d met to date.

‘Master Samwise?’ she said, now.

Sam definitely misliked the tone of that. It had too much in common with the wheedling singsong his sisters used when they were about to ask of him something they knew he would be reluctant to grant; the one that meant they got their way, no matter that he might have every reason to refuse.

‘Yes, miss?’

‘Call me Betony, please, Sam. This rose – it’s left over, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not going to be using it, are you? Do you think that I might possibly…?’ She peered at him now from beneath thickly hazel lashes; Sam was convinced that this would be how she got around her dad for whatever she wanted.

What was he to do? He couldn’t _really_ say no, now could he? Not when her dad had been so kind, and all. ‘Of course, miss,’ he said miserably. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Betony, please!’ She smiled her thanks, dimple well in evidence. Taking up a fern frond too, she set it behind the rose and tied them deftly together with some of Sam’s raffia. ‘No pins left!’ she said impatiently, and instead poked both stems through an eyelet in the lace of her collar.

‘My goodness, that looks pretty!’ said Pasco, as he gathered together his clippers and wire, and tidied away the last of his greenery. ‘Pretty flower for a pretty lass, eh, Sam? Well, come along, my dear. I’m all done here, and there’s a second breakfast calling, for first was so many hours ago, I have almost forgotten it! We shall see you anon, Sam.’’

‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled, as the pair made their way out, Betony turning to give him a very _forward_ smile, he thought. 

_Well, that were a to-do, and no mistake!_

It had been borne in upon Sam several times since Astron that the birthday on which you became a tween was somewhat like the date allowing open season on the wild deer. To be sure, there were teen games to be had before then, but the minute you became a tween, it seemed every second lass wanted her chance to try you out for the future position of husband. You’d to be right careful to make sure she understood that you were not available for any such thing, before proceeding to anything more than a conversation about the weather and how well the garden were looking this year. 

But he had never yet been flirted at quite so brazenly, for anyone to see. It had given him a new sympathy for Frodo’s difficulties: constant and deeper, being as he were so much more eligible in every respect.

Sam was distinctly unhappy that the first time his rose would ever be seen in public, aside from what were on the Show benches, it should be at the breast of one whom he scarcely knew, as though she had some right to it – or even to him. But what could he have done? To refuse her request for no reason that he could give, would have been downright ill-mannered. He couldn’t have come out with it and said that there were only one hobbit he’d ever want to see wearing his rose, and _he_ ought to have had first chance, even if he might well have turned it down - now, could he? Thoroughly unsettled, all Sam could think to do was to spray his buttonhole and gather the rest of his bits and pieces onto the tray with the leftover flowers, pushing it under the bench and out of the way. 

‘Clear the aisles, now! Five minutes to clear the aisles!’ A shout pierced the clamour, and the general movement towards the exits revealed that even now, there were still a few who were putting the last touches to their entries, and who must needs scurry to be finished in time.

Well, it’d been cutting it a deal finer than Sam liked, had that, but he’d got all done and that were the main thing. He caught sight of Frodo briefly, talking to Mr Bilbo up in the hard crafts area, and his guilt about the rose pushed up again. But Frodo didn’t know that Sam thought of it solely as _Frodo’s Rose_ , did he? So he’d likely think nothing of it when he saw Betony wearing one; but Sam would still have given a great deal for Frodo never to have to see her with it at all. He sighed, and decided he’d best be about dealing with Beechnut, who’d stood so patiently all this while.

As he led the pony away to enjoy a day of rest tethered in an adjoining field, the sides of the tent were pulled back up and hooked into place. The nine o’clock bell rang out, doorways were laced up and the judges gathered clipboards, knives and spoons and a very large box of rosettes, to begin their long and largely thankless task. No matter how impartial they tried to be - not difficult in most cases, since all entries were identifiable only by a number; if a judge recognised a piece of work, a decision on that item was reached by the rest of the panel without him or her; no matter how hard they tried, there would always be some hobbits who would remain convinced that they had been deliberately deprived of their rightful – red – rosette.

Here for their inspection lay much of the very best that Shire industry had to offer. The tables were filled lovingly with eye-catching floral displays, with woven-grass punnets of deliciously ripe fruits, with towers and circles and trays of artfully-arranged vegetables. Bottle after golden bottle of country wines stood proud, alongside jar after jar of richly-coloured jams and jellies, made from fruits single and in combinations sometimes more original than felicitous. Here was honey in the jar and in the comb, there its very opposite – pickles, dark and sharply crunchy or smooth and hot; with extremely assorted chutneys, of inventive and often economical ingredients. Dishes of eggs awaited cracking, to test the excellence hidden within their shells of white or the many shades of brown, the darkly speckled or the unbelievably blue; and ample wheels of cheese - hard, soft or positively runny - gave a distinctively pungent aroma to their particular part of the tent. 

But the baking – oh, the baking! From the essential loaf in its very many guises to the fluffiest of jam-and-cream sponges; from spicy curd tarts to butterfly buns, pasties to brandy snaps, tea-breads to fruit cakes richly redolent of brandy – the cooks of the Shire were on their mettle, and the judges might be envied indeed, as they sampled and marked and awarded.

No less care went into the many craft works on display; an entry might be years in the making, though it must have been completed since last Wedmath’s Show to be eligible now. Here were all the patchwork quilts, pieced with such care through many an evening, the pillow lace and fine embroidery that taxed the eyesight if tried too long. Class by class came wedding ring shawls draped cheek by jowl with sturdy knitted jumpers; tatted edgings on tray-cloths and milk jug covers following crocheted doyleys; workaday garments, sharply smocked against the rain and threaded over with love by wife or sweetheart, lay next to exquisite falls of lace, designed to froth at throat or breast of elegant hobbits on very special occasions, and destined to become family heirlooms.

Beyond the plethora of items to enhance the home and person of the industrious hobbit and her family, were classes which did not have their focus on the frills and furbelows of life (as many a hobbit might be heard to comment upon the soft craft entries made by wife or sister; though the betrothed tended to take a more lenient view).

And it was true that, on the whole, the lads made a thinner showing of it; not because their hands were less talented, rather that their works tended to the practical and needful, and were mostly taken into use just as soon as finished. Many a hobbit could and did bake as well as or better than his wife, over and above all his entries in the Horticulture classes, of course; and knitting was a common enough task for shepherd or carter with time to kill between tasks (it was amazing how much a hobbit could get done, given a long journey on quiet lanes behind ponies that knew their job and when any approaching vehicle could be heard a way off).

Carving was much enjoyed, both in itself and for the decoration of the useful; as was the making of models, from the challenge of miniature carriages, to the scaling down of buildings like the Old Grange, the mill or the Mathom-house. There was one entry which claimed to be a copy of one of the three White Towers, visible in the distance from Michel Delving; but since few hobbits had any closer an acquaintance, its accuracy must remain a matter for conjecture until it came under Mr Baggins’ judicious eye. 

Smoking accessories were definitely more the province of the lads. Pipes could be tricky to get right, but there were pipe racks aplenty entered, and clever little pocket pipe stands; tobacco containers of wood or fired clay, pouches of precisely tooled leather, and sturdy handles for knives or for the replaceable reamers that were the smaller teasel heads. The decoration of such things – especially when poker-worked - tended to the robust and cheerful rather than the delicate, though there were exceptions. And Sam reckoned that so long as no one let on that some of the sweeping patterns were elf runes, and that the flowing ‘border’ actually told who had made the piece and when, Frodo had a better chance than not of winning a rosette with his tobacco jar. Of finely polished sycamore, painstakingly inlaid with slivers of pearly shell, it showed hobbits dancing in a tree lined dell (the matching piece, its slender elves gracing their moonlit glade far more elegantly, was shrewdly left at home on the mantelshelf). Sam’s lips were sealed, of course, and he knew that Mr Bilbo – excluded from the judging - would smile blandly and shake his head, were his opinion asked.

In the Arts section, competition was probably keenest in the portrait class; there was more than one hobbit who could read little more than his name and the numbers, but would limn a fairer likeness than any whose calligraphy was perfect. Still life entries were popular, their strokes of boldly sweeping colour in complete contrast to the recent trend for the making and decoration of shades. A sizable class of starkly black profiles stared at or turned their backs upon each other, as they awaited judgement; Sam blushed to know his own was amongst them, completely recognisable despite Mr Frodo’s insistence on embellishment more suited to a gentlehobbit. And of course, there were landscapes in watercolour, finely detailed or mistily vague; Sam was counting on at least one rosette for Frodo here, for there were few with his eye for the minutiae of the Shire.

It was indeed a rare hobbit on the Show-ground today that had not brought at least one item – and maybe another for a friend left at home - to represent him or her beneath the measured and careful decisions about to be taken so deliberately within the tent. But for now, there was nothing more to be done towards the winning of a coveted rosette, and every reason to plunge into the delights of the day; time enough, come the four o’clock bell, to worry further over winning or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
> [ Hunting with ferrets ](http://www.harrys-ferrets.co.uk/page37.html)is still legal in England (though for how long…)  
>  For the 'geranium' dear to Marigold's heart, in this instance, please understand [Pelargonium](http://media.growsonyou.com/photos/photo/image/105500/main/Pelargonium_Scarlet.jpg)  
> This is the plant which, like Daisy, [does _not_](http://apps.rhs.org.uk/advicesearch/profile.aspx?pid=348)  
>  _Frodo's Rose_ has a great deal in common with LD Braithwaite, though its size, of course, would be more akin to that of [Cecile Brunner](http://pics.davesgarden.com/pics/2008/07/16/Angel_D/e47500.jpg).  
>  Pasco’s [Crisscross fern](http://www.rainyside.com/images/ferns/Athyrium_filix-feminaDreDagger050407_2.jpg) is here  
> [Hens ](http://www.highdownpoultry.co.uk/Araucanas.htm)that lay blue eggs really do exist  
> In England, a jumper is a knitted woollen garment, possibly known elsewhere as a sweater or jersey, also guernsey – corrupted in places into the dialect _gansey_ \- a long way down the spectrum from a [wedding ring shawl](http://www.heirloom-knitting.co.uk/what_is_sl.html). For Shire [lace-makers](http://www.laceguild.demon.co.uk/index.html) it was a hobby, not drudgery; and the [smocking](http://gallery.nen.gov.uk/asset656950-.html) was also done with love.  
> [Silhouettes](http://www.arunet.co.uk/tkboyd/tk1mp2.htm) by another name make an enjoyable pastime for my hobbits...


	4. Show Day the First - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frodo and Sam fail in one area but succeed in another, all unintended; and a question is almost asked
> 
> Rating: _Still_ boringly G. Except for the clinch, maybe...

Sam walked Beechnut from between the shafts of the trap, but had hardly time to begin removing his driving tack before Frodo was there to lend a hand. He took the bridle and reins to wipe the bits and stow all safely in the driving seat-box, whilst Sam latched on the pony’s halter.

‘Did you finish in time, Sam? How does your rose look? I’d have come over but Bilbo needed a quick word.’

‘I did, sir, thank you – and that I did was mostly thanks to you, putting all my things where I needed them. You saved me a fair bit of time, there! And—well, it looks all right, I think.’ Sam had revealed only that the new rose would be unveiled to the interested of the Shire today. He hadn't mentioned that it would be entered not in a single bloom class but as part of a corsage – and definitely not why. 

_What_ I _put together looks well enough. Of the other, I'd not like to say..._ But perhaps he needn’t mention the spare rose at all?

Frodo smiled. ‘Of course it does! And you were as flustered as Bilbo with Lobelia rat-tatting at the door – I had to do _some_ thing to help!’

Sam hid his helplessly pleased grin in Beechnut’s mane as he clipped halter to rope, and then made the proper hitch to the back of the trap. Frodo checked the brake and brought stones to wedge under the wheels too, just in case, then fished out an empty haynet and unslung the bucket. ‘Water or grass, Sam?’

The pony was soon settled with one net generously filled by Frodo with grass from their early cutting, the second of crisp hay brought from the home, and with his bucket of water set where Sam knew it would remain shaded all day. Sam’s mind turned next to the needs of his masters. ‘What about the lunch basket, sir? Is it to stay here, or have I to take it to the judges’ tent for Mr Bilbo?’

‘No, Sam - Bilbo said he’ll be so full of sweetcake samples and thimblefuls of wine that he’s quite looking forward to plain bread and cheese and a cup of tea from the refreshment tent. Whatever is in there is for you and me, though he said that there’s far too much even for us, and he suggested that the Gaffer and your sisters might like to join us. I caught up with the lasses on my way and said I thought we’d eat here at about midday.’

‘That’s very good of him, sir,’ Sam said, with yet another moment of silent thanks, brief but heartfelt, that Mr Bilbo and no other were the Master at Bag End. ‘And of you, of course,’ he added, as he pushed the basket right underneath the trap, to stay as cool as possible. He wouldn’t put it past Frodo to have had the idea himself and just credited it to Mr Bilbo for his kindness in bringing such another treat for them; which reminded him that yesterday’s basket had never been emptied and ought to be, for Mr Bilbo to take home with him today.

‘Right, I think Beechnut should be happy enough for now. What next?’ Frodo asked, his expression studiedly casual.

‘Well now, what did you have in mind, sir?’ Sam asked, knowing the answer full well; there were few lads, teen or tween, whose first stopping place would be any different on this first day of the Show.

‘You know, Sam, over there, they have these things called Rides…’ Frodo was grinning openly now, the anticipation bright in his eyes. 

‘My thought exactly, sir – lead on!’

They’d scarce heard it from where Beechnut was tethered, but as they neared the gate, the sound of the great music box came louder and louder, announcing that the Rides had commenced for the day. Whilst ever they were running it was kept wound tight, and its insistently memorable jangle added to the fun.

Sam had once been given a peep inside, and it seemed to work just the same as the small and beautifully Dale-made casket that lived in the parlour at Bag End, for he’d seen the inner workings of that, too. When it was opened, a slender maiden pirouetted to a silvery tinkling, and from the time he first heard the tale as a youngster, Sam had always been convinced this must be Lúthien in her moonlit glade. 

Here was no such delicate work. To all intents and purposes this was merely a broad, upright box on wheels, with a large key sticking out of the back; decorated, to be sure, but in a hearty and no-nonsense manner, for the workings were what really mattered. And, best Sam could tell, what was inside was simply a very much bigger brass cylinder, with bits sticking out here and there, just the same. When it went round, these bits’d catch and twang against a huge comb with teeth of different lengths; and somehow all those tings and tangs joined up to make a warbling tune that tumbled from the sounding chamber to echo clear across the Show-ground. There were several different cylinders so that the music could be changed, but here were no silvered chimes; these were brash and brazen - all jolly, rhythmic variants of well-known Shire songs that set every hobbit’s toes a-tap before he knew it. _These_ tunes were guaranteed to keep the queues forming and the pence rolling in.

By now, morning was well on its way to the full, and the Show-field was abuzz; the aisles were crammed with a noisy, colourful heave of hobbitry, and you were best to move with care should you want to avoid your toes being painfully trodden on, or an inadvertent stomachful of elbow as someone tried to force his way along. Progress was slow, even if you travelled down the centre, thus foregoing any chance to see such delights as the stalls on either side might have to offer. 

Frodo seemed to slither ahead through gaps Sam could barely see, like a tiddler through the tiniest rent in your keep net, but his own wider bulk was a drawback that caught against every stray shoulder. Quite why having to push through noisy, heedless crowds of hobbits (each and every one of them obviously bent on stopping to chat just exactly where he were intending to walk) should make Sam feel so wellingly happy inside, he couldn’t have said. But every few yards, Frodo would halt and look back, to grin at him for the impossibility of the situation; and Sam knew it was worth every step of the way, every single crushed toe and jabbed rib.

When they reached the Rides, the throng thinned and formed into itself queues for each. The merry-go-round would be out of the question for a good while yet - the line swept twice around and back again. At the swing-boats it was less than half as long, but for the Joywheel, you scarcely queued at all. There was simply a mad scramble to get aboard once the wheel stopped after spinning off its previous load of hobbits.

‘I used to be good at that when I was younger,’ Frodo said, a little wistfully.

‘Yes, sir, Mr Greybeard, sir!’ It came out before Sam thought about it - before he could remind himself that this wasn’t just one of the lads from Hobbiton he was teasing. But when Frodo just grinned broadly, taking no offence, Sam added, ‘‘Course, I’ve only bin a tween since Astron, so _I’m_ still young enough to enjoy it proper! Do you think your poor old limbs could manage it, sir, if I were to give you a hand up?’ 

‘Sam Gamgee, I regard that as a challenge!’ Frodo’s lips gave the distinct twitch that was the sign that he was on his mettle. Sam had seen it many a time as Frodo stood up to Mr Bilbo in a contest of wits; that it was usually Frodo who must concede, he would - once he caught his breath from laughing - put down to the fact that Bilbo had had so many years in which to collect more tricks with which to trip an opponent. (There were definitely things that twitch did to Sam that he wouldn’t want Mr Bilbo knowing about, though.)

As the wheel slowed to a halt (empty as usual) and they were rootling in pockets for the coins, Frodo said, ‘A wager, Sam! The one who falls off soonest must stake the other’s ride? I’ll just show you who is too old for this!’ 

Sam grinned. ‘I hate to take your money from you, sir, but if you insist!’ 

They slapped hands on it then clambered onto the huge wooden disc, and Sam turned to concentrate on getting himself into the very centre. He’d done this often enough over the years to work out that the only place you might be safe from the speed that was trying to fling you off, was right in the middle. Not possible now, though, as there were others with the same notion; he settled as near to it as he could, Frodo close beside him. 

‘It seems to be more than we who know the ‘secret’, Sam!’ Frodo said in an undertone.

He should have known, Sam thought. No-one who watched and studied as much and as often as Mr Frodo could possibly have failed to divine the solution to the Joywheel’s trick of scattering its patrons willy nilly.

The wheel was thickly crowded now with lads of all ages from _too small, really_ to _old enough to know better_ (many were far older than Frodo). There were only a very few lasses, and they young and unconcerned with showing their long white drawers, setting aside how ungraceful they would look, when they – inevitably - tumbled off. Pence were collected, and the wheel began to turn, slowly at first, as the pair of hobbits working the crank got into their stride. Then the speed increased, and those hobbits on the very edges dug in their toes and leaned back, hastily. To no avail – seconds later they were picking themselves up and climbing over the bales, out of harm’s way.

Faster still and faster sped the wheel. Interested onlookers, so clearly seen just moments before, were no sooner past than come around again - here–gone–here–gone-here–gone - until their faces merged into one dizzying blur. Sam felt rather than heard the quiet moan from the lad squashed up behind him who had managed to get the very centre spot. It was Lester Catesby, a very young teen to whom Sam owed the ritual toffee apple for his help that morning; he was beginning to look rather unwell.

‘Tuck your head in!’ Sam advised in a sort of low bellow, for his voice seemed to be whipped away from him. ‘And it might be as well to keep your eyes shut, so’s you can’t tell how fast we’re going!’ Lester didn’t reply, but must have heard, for he abruptly transformed himself into a ball, tighter than a dormouse in its hazel thicket. 

Even as Sam spoke, came the slight click and jerk of a new gear engaged - and the wheel spun impossibly faster. He was still fairly hopeful of success himself, but hobbits near to him were slipping away rapidly now, ending up in unceremonious heaps between the wheel and its guard rail of straw. And push down as he might, the sleek warmth of polished wood was treacherous beneath his feet and trousers. It began slowly – merely the awareness that he was moving, no more; but then in an inexorable slither he was being swept away as though by a huge, unseen hand. His fingers struck out of their own will it seemed, desperately seeking some hold - and what they seized upon was Frodo, also struggling to stay aboard. In a sliding clutch and a tangle of legs, they skidded together and tumbled into a tight embrace. 

Before Sam could do so much as blink, they were rolling over and over each other, right off the wheel to land as one up against a particularly prickly (Sam might have sworn, had he not had other sensations on his mind) bale of straw. Several of those protuberant stalks were sticking somewhat painfully into his left ear, but what was beginning to push into him elsewhere was what Sam noticed and responded to. There was nothing painful about _that_ , whatsoever, and Sam’s sudden breathlessness had little to do with the Joy to be gained from wheels and everything to do with pleasure to be obtained in quite _other_ places.

There was a distant shout which seemed to be of commiseration, and it was borne in upon Sam that he really _should_ open his eyes, and that he definitely could _not_ continue to lie here like this, or in any fashion which might so pleasantly continue a theme which was developing so very satisf— 

_Oh_! 

The same thought had obviously occurred to Frodo at precisely the same moment, for he was scrambling hastily if awkwardly to his feet, loudly proclaiming something about being, ‘Winded, just for a moment, there,’ and that he was, ‘Sorry Sam!’

Sam kept his eyes down as he pulled himself up to rest on the unkindly bale for a moment. He’d blurted out, ‘That’s all right, Mr Frodo, sir, I lost me own breath for a minute, there,’ before he’d really thought how it might sound, though no-one nearby seemed to have noticed; and Sam could no more have looked Frodo in the face right then, to see if _he_ had, than fly. Indeed, he kept his eyes fixed firmly in the centre of Frodo’s chest for there weren't no sense in looking further and getting his hopes up, too. ‘Twouldn’t have been meant, not like Sam’s was meant; must have just been the friction as did it. And reliving the sensation right now were _not_ a good idea. Sam discouraged such thoughts firmly - but it weren't so much his _thoughts_ as were most in need of restraint.

Concentrating hard on the hobbits around him, he discovered the commiserations to be for poor Lester, who just hadn’t quite made it to the end after all, and was in fact currently disposing of his second breakfast rather noisily in the convenient trench, dug over by the hedge. 

Frodo suddenly sat down heavily on the bale beside Sam; a quick sideways peep revealed that he was now wearing a slight tinge of green over a noticeable pallor.

‘You all right, sir?’ Sam asked, abandoning all consideration now of what he might or might not have felt – couldn’t have, not when Frodo were looking so poorly all of a sudden. It'd likely just been his own wishful thinking.

Frodo swallowed hard. ‘I _was_ all right, until I let myself listen to young Lester. I think I shall be rather better if we move away, because from the look of it, there will be other lads doing exactly the same thing before too long!’ The wheel had started its implacable spin once more, and from the look on Frodo’s face, just watching it might be enough. 

‘Thought for a bit that you was going to manage to stop aboard, Samwise!’ said a friendly voice. 

Sam looked up to see Til standing there, a smile on his face and as light-hearted as ever he had been. And Sam realised that the sober demeanour he had taken for the effects of growing up had its cause elsewhere; that _this_ Til looked younger and happier than Sam had seen in a fair while.

‘Hello, Til! You on your own?’ Sam said, for there was no sign of any Traveller, lad or lass; all would be busy with the stalls and sideshows, he supposed.

‘Aye, for now. Dad’s arrived for the day, and he’s checking over our stock, so I thought I’d take a walk round the field and give him chance to find what I’ve missed doing!’ From some lads this might have been a bitter complaint at their parent’s harsh perfectionism, but Sam knew – as did Til and his Dad - that any good stockhobbit would have done the same, that there would be no fault to be found, and that censure was no part of it.

Til’s eyes flicked aside then, and Sam realised that Frodo had got to his feet.

‘Morning, Mr Frodo, sir.’

‘Good morning, Til, how are you? Enjoying the Show?’ Frodo had turned his back resolutely on the Joywheel, and his colour was slowly returning.

‘Oh, yes, sir, very much. You’re looking a bit better nor you was a minute or two ago, may I say?’’ 

‘I am simply not used to whirling on top of such a large breakfast – or at all, if it comes to that! I think that next time, I shall try it fasting.' He paused for a settling breath. 'So, what stock do you have here, Til?’

‘We’ve brought one or two of the cattle, sir, and Biddy’s done us proud with her last litter, so she’s here again.’ Biddy the Darkshire sow was justly famous for her ease of farrowing so many lively black piglets. ‘We’ll be fair busy with them all tomorrow, and Dad's been redding up the milk float for the turnout class. And I’ve Meg in the trials heats this afternoon, of course.’ 

‘I still reckon you two were unlucky getting that balky ewe last year,’ Sam said, remembering. 

Meg had been a novice with the sheep, back then; she and Til had been doing right well up until the final, when they’d come up against one of those rare ewes with no respect for a dog. Though Meg had penned her at last she had cost them points and the rosettes had gone elsewhere.

‘She’s a good eye, has Meg - she were just a mite young still, to use it right last year. But since then me and her’s practised with the most headstrong sheep to be found anywhere in the Farthings - ours _and_ other folks’s. We’ll cope with whatever the draw throws at us, this time!’ Til had a quiet pride in his dog, and Sam knew that this would be no idle boast. 

‘The way we’re slated for the heats, I should think we’ll be off not that long after lunch, so I’d best get on,’ Til said. 

Sam suddenly had the distinct notion that this ‘walk round the field’ was to more purpose than the one Til had given. He raised one eyebrow. ‘Anything special in mind?’ he asked. ‘You’d have no time to join a queue, that’s for sure, though you could take a turn on the wheel.’

‘No, I—fact is, I thought I’d just go along and say hello to a friend of mine. He helps on one of the stalls, and he’s in the Little Show. He—he’s a Traveller.’

‘I think I may have seen you with him last night,’ Sam said gently.

‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ Til blushed, realising what Sam must have seen. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

‘Naught to be sorry for,’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘He looks a nice lad.’

‘He is that!’ Til’s agreement was swift and heartfelt.

‘What does your friend do in the Show?’ Frodo asked; and Sam remembered that Frodo had also seen them together. Was he just being tactful now, to spare Til further blushes, or was he changing the subject because he had misliked (as some did) the sight of two lads, kissing for love in the dark? Sam thought not, for Frodo’s smile to Til was as open and friendly as ever.

‘Well now, if I tell you that, sir, it’ll spoil it for you,’ Til said with a grin. ‘You pay your pence and see for yourself, Mr Frodo. It’s very clever, what he does – what _they_ do - and how it’s done. Well worth going to see!’ There was pride in Til’s voice again, Sam thought, but this time there was tenderness too, and a soft smile to go with it. There could be no doubt how very much Til was in love, not to Sam’s mind, anyway; he’d to guard against using that tone and that look himself. Til obviously lacked the practice that Sam had, not being with _his_ lad for most of the year.

‘We’ll certainly make sure not to miss him, then,’ Frodo said. ‘What is his name?’

‘He’s called Rafe,’ Til said almost shyly, and Sam could tell he was unused to being able to name his love aloud. ‘Rafe Boswell.’

‘We shall hope to meet him, perhaps,’ Frodo said, ‘but we _will_ make a point of watching the Show, won’t we, Sam? Maybe we’ll see you there, Til, and you could introduce us afterwards?’

‘I’d be proud to, sir, and thank you. I must be off now, time’s getting on! Goodbye, Sam!’

Sam returned the farewell and watched as Til disappeared into the ferment of hobbits. No, Frodo obviously had no problem with Til and his Rafe. But it were a long step from accepting something that touched you not at all, to wanting the same for yourself. Sam wanted to cry out, _Yes, Til loves a lad – but so do I! I need to know what you feel about it, sir - whether you could feel that way yourself. If you might ever feel that way for me…_

When he turned back, Frodo was looking at him.

‘Sam, I—That is—’ 

Then Sam's stomach gave a great flollop, for Frodo’s eyes were suddenly so gentle and his face bore a look that Sam had never seen – or been allowed to see? – there before. He almost thought…it almost seemed…it reminded him…of Til. Of Til and Til's face when he talked of his Rafe, the look Sam knew so well from the inside… 

'Sam, could _you_ —’ Though the words were hesitant, they roused that small spark of hope Sam nurtured deep within him.

But at that very moment, a name was called by someone in the crowd; and Sam was never to hear the end of Frodo’s half-formed question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  Biddy is actually of the same [breed](http://www.berkshirepigs.org.uk/) as Bland’s friend Pig-wig. (Transatlantic readers might like to note that the difference is of letters and not of vowel sound)  
> A milk [float](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/Tilfloatovalsepia.jpg) did not always come in a tall glass  
> Til's [trials](http://www.isds.org.uk/society/handling_trailling/what_is_trial.html) have nothing to do with his romantic tribulations and everything to do with Meg  
> My Travellers are, of course, loosely (but respectfully) based on the Romany peoples. [This](http://www.globusz.com/ebooks/Romano/00000034.htm), on the subject of names, is from George Borrow’s _Word-book of the Romany_ (1905)


	5. Show Day the First - Mid Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which class matters – and doesn’t; Sam convinces himself, Gaffer is garrulous & Andwise appears in name only
> 
> Rating: Mind-numbingly G. No, _really_

‘Frodo!’ 

The voice was richly languid, as befitted a portly and self-satisfied speaker. He stood by the Show-ring, one foot resting on a straw bale. Some of his attention was on Frodo, the rest keen on the class of mares with foal at foot now being judged. (Them Downs ponies as ran free above the Delvings, Sam thought they might be.)

‘Frodo! Over here, dear boy!’ 

‘Hello, Roddy.’ 

Sam kept his eyes on the ground and a pace to the rear as they crossed the aisle. Mr Underwood was a pleasant enough gentlehobbit; when he visited Bag End, he always had a light word for the gardener should he be helping within the smial. But Sam knew - as would any employee - that it were merely the surface politeness of his class. It bore no resemblance to the real interest with which Mr Bilbo or Frodo would enquire as to the health and family of those who served them. Mr Underwood simply expected a servant to know his place.

‘You here on your own, old chap?’

‘Not at all,’ Frodo said. He took a deliberate step back. ‘Sam is with me.’

‘Well, yes. Good morning, Sam. But what I meant was, you don’t have anyone _with_ you.’

Frodo simply looked at him. 

‘Oh all _right_!’ Roddy had the grace to look just a little uncomfortable if not embarrassed, at his lapse from good manners. ‘I mostly meant that young Merry isn’t here with you, as he usually is.’

‘Merry is not coming this year - haven’t you heard? The Spotty Disease ran wild through Buckland and Merry was one of the last to catch it. He is still quite _mortifyingly_ blemished and decided not to come - he’s sure that all the prettiest lasses will refuse ever to look at him again if they catch sight of his poculated and still very itchy self!’ Frodo laughed. He and Bilbo - and by discreet invitation, Sam - had been considerably entertained, on the occasion of his last visit, by Merry’s sudden conversion. Overnight, it seemed, he had gone from being a careless lad who considered lasses to be a confounded nuisance if he thought about them at all, to a brash and far too young suitor, with a new and surprisingly dedicated interest in his own appearance.

‘I heard a rumour, but I didn’t really think Merry, of all chaps, could be so vain.’ 

Not that Sam would dream of voicing so disrespectful an observation, but he secretly thought Mr Underwood no stranger to vanity himself, being as he were more than a bit on the overdressed side right here and now. Whilst the modish coat and matching smallclothes were not at the very height of hobbit fashion as Sam understood it to be – he had, after all, seen some of Master Merry’s more outlandish garments - they did seem to Sam rather fanciful for attending a show. All them ruffles and whatnots’d be bound to get caught up in summat just as you were enjoying a Ride, like as not, or trying to keep your concentration for a winning throw; and if Mr Roddy were reckoning to have much to do with the livestock – well, all Sam could think were that he were right glad _he_ hadn’t the washing of them. And any road, if _Frodo_ saw no reason to wear a fancy get up, there could be, in Sam’s opinion, no reason for one at all. (No denying, though, that the sight of Frodo, elegant in velvet and lace for a special occasion, were guaranteed to get Sam into such a tizzy that he’d need a time of dark and solitude in which to recover himself. Best not to even _think_ on that, right now.)

‘Merry has only recently discovered the delights of the female form, Roddy - he doesn’t want to spoil his chances before he’s really had any!’

Roddy smiled but was then distracted by the satiny black mare currently being trotted past them in the ring. ‘I say, Frodo, that’s rather a splendid colt she has there! Just look at that action—’ 

Although Mr Underwood were known to be something of an expert on ponies and his searching appraisal might therefore be most instructive, Sam allowed his voice to fade out so he could take up the far more pressing matter of Frodo’s almost-question.

Had he really been going to say, ‘Sam, could _you_ love a lad?’ Might he even have gone on to ask, ‘Could you love _me_?’ 

Sam’s happiness would have been immediate, unbelieving, overwhelming... He closed his eyes briefly to savour such a moment in his mind.

But would Frodo ever have asked such a thing?

 _You’re grasping at nothings, Sam Gamgee, you’re so desperate for him to look at you with love - the way Til looks when he says his Rafe’s name! He likely meant to say no more than,_ ‘Sam, could _you_ believe it, _I_ couldn’t! Fancy Til wanting a lad - I’d never do that, would you?’ 

It wouldn’t have been condemning; that wasn’t Frodo’s way. A simple comment, kind enough, but definitely not what Sam so longed to hear. 

_And for all you know, he were going to carry on with,_ ‘It’s all right for other hobbits, I suppose, but I think a lad really belongs with a lass, don’t you? In fact, Sam, I’d like you to be the first to know, and I hope you will be happy for me, for us…’ _It’d be thinking about that, about_ her _, as made his face all soft and loving, and naught to do with_ you _at all. Til and his Rafe just reminded him of his lass that he’s come to meet. See - look at him right this minute!_

Roddy was sketching something in the air with sweeping movements of his hands and much exaggeration in his manner, but Frodo was smiling absently, his mind elsewhere (though Sam doubted that Mr Underwood could have told the difference). Sam couldn’t tell where he was looking, maybe not actually at anyone; probably just day dreaming, thinking how happy he would be when he finally met up with whoever she was that he had waited for, was waiting still. He’d been polite, of course he had, when Roddy noted that Sam was alongside him, but he were probably beginning to wish that Sam would take himself off so’s he could set himself to tracking her down, wherever she might be.

Sam sighed. It were a bit close to lunchtime to leave Frodo to himself right now; the family had been invited to share the picnic after all, and Frodo were always right scrupulous in honouring his commitments so Sam had best remain at hand. But soon as ever the meal were over, he’d think of a way to make it easy for Frodo to escape his company and yet remain polite - make it easy for Frodo to seek out his love. He had already been given so very much more of Frodo’s time than he’d a right to expect - he had _known_ it couldn’t last.

And Mr Underwood’s attitude were cause enough on its own that Sam could be no more to Frodo than what he was right now, even if there weren’t a lass in the offing. Friendship with your gardener were bad enough in some hobbits’ eyes, it seemed; Sam were pretty sure that Frodo’s grand relations’d look down their noses at him quicker for _that_ than for loving a lad - provided that lad were a gentlehobbit, of course. But if he should be a mere servant… Yet more reason it’d be difficult for Frodo, if he _did_ have feelings for Sam, ever to show them. _Wouldn’t be right to put Frodo through any such thing._ But Sam wouldn’t mind being kept a secret, if he could know that Frodo wanted his love the way that he needed Frodo’s...

An invitation broke in on Sam’s thoughts; it seemed that the disquisition on events in the Show-ring had wound to its end, and Sam not the only one to have considered the coming of lunch.

‘Do say that you will join us, Frodo! Fellowes tends to pack rather a decent luncheon basket on these occasions, and I know you’ll like the wine - crisp and light - just the thing on a day like today! Not a particularly well-known vintage, but very pleasant for all that. And Flora will be absolutely delighted to see you. She was snaffled by one the aunts, earlier, and I’m afraid that I sort of lost them—’ He paused for an excuse to soften the dereliction of his duty in leaving his poor wife to so garrulous a fate.

‘You sloped off at the first opportunity, Roddy - admit it!’ Frodo’s accusation was smooth and swift, his stern words belied by the teasing gleam in his eyes.

‘Well, you could put it like that, I suppose…’ Roddy grinned; he could be honest about his short-comings, when pushed to do so. ‘But hang it all, Frodo, you _know_ what the aunts can be like.’ 

Frodo obviously did, for they had several in common, courtesy title or no. ‘You simply want me along to provide another target for censure! Thank you, but no. I decline to be swayed by your weaselling wines, no matter how temptingly crisp and light! Apart from anything else, I should hate to come between you and Aunt Dora!’

Roddy’s face fell. ‘It’s worse than that,’ he confessed mournfully. ‘It’s Great Aunt Hope.’ 

‘ _Definitely_ not, then! Even the best of meals and the most beguiling of wines must fail when faced with a hobbit who has made it her life’s work to belie the optimism of her name! I came here to enjoy myself, Roddy, and I think poorly of you for trying to lure me into a situation so fraught with discomfort if not actual pain!’ Frodo’s laughing refusal had a finality that Roddy could not ignore.

‘Very well then.’ Roddy drew himself up hobbitfully. ‘I can do this alone, I know I can!’

‘Of course you can - and Flora will be there to support you! But Sam and I have a luncheon engagement shortly and we ought to begin making our way back if we are not to be late.’ Sam’s exclusion from the invitation had not been voiced, of course, for it was taken for granted; the omission served silently to point up Frodo’s words now. 

‘In fact, Sam, we should really go and find your Gaffer to make sure that he knows we are eating at midday and where to find the trap.’

‘Yessir,’ Sam said, not looking up, for he knew full well that Mr Underwood would be all askance at the thought that Frodo Baggins - heir to Bag End and all that the Mastership entailed - would turn down an invitation (no matter how aunt-infested) from Mr Roderic Underwood of Undersmials, in order to eat his lunch with the gardener and that gardener’s son.

‘We shall probably see you again, Roddy. Do keep an eye out for Bilbo, when he finishes judging, won’t you? He would be sorry to miss you, especially if you bring him the opportunity of a sparring match with one of the relatives! We really should be off. Ready, Sam?’

As they turned along the aisle once more - the crowds had spread more thinly after the rush of first arrivals, and the going easier now - Frodo said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Sam. Roddy’s a good chap but he can be a little… overbearing at times.’

‘It’s no matter, sir.’ Sam said, though it was. It was a very great matter indeed that Frodo should feel for Sam - for a _servant_ \- in such a situation, even if there weren’t aught he could do about it. Much as Sam desired Frodo, this generosity of spirit was one of the things he loved most about him. 

Frodo were looking back to the Rides with a bit of a frown; happen regretting that his question had been interrupted as much as Sam regretted it? Or regretting the fact that he had almost asked whatever it was? He weren’t going to ask again now though, that much were clear. 

‘The queues are far too long for it to be worth joining one now, Sam - it _is_ too near to lunch. Drat Roddy and his obsession with ponies - we could have had a turn on the swing-boats already! Shall we come back afterwards, and hope that the rush has ended or that everyone else is still too busy eating to bother yet?’

‘Whatever you think, sir.’ It didn’t sound as though Frodo were in any hurry to abandon Sam just yet, but maybe – maybe he didn’t know which day she were coming? Sam’s mind set off again, tripping over itself to find reasons for whatever lucky chance was keeping Frodo by his side for so wonderfully long.

‘Do you have any idea where your Gaffer might be found, in such a throng?’

‘Well, if he’s not there yet, he’ll be on his way to Uncle Andy’s stall, sir, to have a word with our Ham. Only other place would be Swire’s Sundries. He’ll likely stop for a word or ten with Bill, no matter that he were at market just Sterday.’

Bill Swire had stood markets over a good stretch of the Shire for more years than he’d admit to, and he and Gaffer had been cronies forever, it seemed to Sam. Bill’s sundries were, of course, all garden-related. There were few items of any use to a tiller of garden soil - whether his own or that of other hobbits - which Bill didn’t stock (or at least that he couldn’t get hold of if you were prepared to wait a while - he even sold boots down into The Marish, that he’d to trade with the dwarves for). From sturdy canes and balls of fillis to vine eyes and heavy gauge wire, from barrows to handforks to trowels, Bill had it all. 

His stall was stacked around with buckets, riddles and fine potting sieves. Here were pruners and slashers and billhooks in a fiercely bristling array; there, spades and forks leaned confidentially against each other, as if knowing their mutual necessity, and the hoes and rakes hovered beside, meekly awaiting their turn. Though tools were a valuable patrimony to be handed down through the years, it happened regularly that the sons of a large family might need new; a full set was regarded as a fine gift for a new-wed couple, who might thus begin their own tradition. 

Bill did a brisk trade in pattens, too, and not only for those who disliked muddy foothair or the squish between their toes in foul weather. There were few hobbits in the Shire - and they the foolhardy ones - who could wield a spade properly without at least one patten strapped to the digging foot, and usually the pair for balance. Many a hobbit made his own, for they could be whittled for free from any fallen wood; but the metal of the spade ate as easily into a soft, easily shaped wood as into the callouses of a hobbit’s foot. Swire’s pattens were carved from several different well-cured hardwoods, but the finest and longest lasting were of the very dense, dark wood from a tree whose name he could not pronounce but whose usefulness he had realised immediately, the first time he was offered it. His arrangement with the Traveller family who had brought it up from the south was beneficial to both, and also to the dedicated gardeners of the Shire. It arrived infrequently, being a heavy, bulky trade item, and in consequence such pattens were more expensive and much prized. 

From what Sam gathered, the weather were hotter and wetter wherever these trees grew, and for some reason that made the grain closer and harder to work, which made for harder wearing too. Pattens bought anywhere were known to last many times as long as the home-made variety but Bill’s specials would last a lifetime if carefully cleaned and oiled after use. Sam and Gaffer had each been gifted a pair by Bilbo, not wishing his gardeners to be crippled by the effort they put into their work.

Amidst all this garden-ware and more, Gaffer was comfortably seated on an upturned barrel, obviously resting from the effort of struggling through the crowds. His mind and his tongue seemed as active as ever though, for he and Bill were nattering away nineteen to the dozen. Neither hobbit missed aught that passed, but nor did Bill miss any opportunity for a sale. Sam suspected their conversation to consist of complaints the fall in standards of everything from the miserly allotment of table space for Gaffer’s Whitedrop goosegogs (and other folks’s in the same class, he’d have to admit) to the quality of the savoury, pastry-wrapped sausages sold on the next stall but one (‘And not a patch on them her gammer were selling, first year I had my stall!’) Each of them looked to be enjoying every minute of it.

‘There you are, our Sam!’ Gaffer called, as he caught sight of his son. ‘Mr Frodo, sir!’ He made to get up but Frodo shook his head.

‘Did Bilbo mention our picnic to you, Gaffer?’ 

‘Well, yes, he did, sir, and it’s very kind of him, and of you, but my brother’s come this year, sir - your Uncle Andy, Sam! What do you think of that, then?’ It was rare these days for Andwise Roper to leave his precious ropewalk and travel to the Show; he tended to leave more and more of the journeying to the lads, much as Sam was gradually assuming responsibility for the gardens at Bag End. ‘We’ve a cartload of catching up to do - I’m on my way to meet him now, and once he’s seen the lads have got the stall sorted and running proper, and I’ve had a word with our Hamson, we’ll be settling to a good cup of tea and a chinwag and I doubt but we’ll be at it all day.’

Sam could well believe it, and when Frodo caught his eye, he could tell he’d no difficulty neither.

‘Come very early this morning, they did, on account of old Whitefoot having thrown a shoe betwixt Long Barton and Sandersteads and settin’ ’em back a day. He said as he caught sight of you while you was a-cuttin’, and how you’d growed sin’ he saw you last, but you didn’t hear his shout, seemingly. Says you looks to be a grand lad now.’ Gaffer sniffed as though doubting his brother’s assessment, but there was a definite warmth in his eyes when they rested on his youngest son. Sam squirmed his embarrassment, to a sympathetic grin from Frodo.

‘His rheumatics is worse nor mine now, I should think, for all that he’s been a-workin’ under cover this many a year sin’ they got the walk shedded in, ’stead of just them bushes to shelter the twist. Not like me, out there in all weathers, day in day out, man and boy.’ 

This was one of Gaffer’s favourite themes, Sam knew, and one which took no account whatever of the fact that there were a definite limit to what you _could_ do in the garden in the wet, without panning your soil up as finely as no gardener worth the name would ever do; and that anyway, Mr Bilbo had always made sure, whenever possible, that if the weather were inclement, barring you’d tools to maintain or some such under cover, there’d be a task or two as urgently needed doing within the smial. A quick glance at Frodo - half-plea to forgive his dad such a guileless version of the facts - revealed a deep if hidden (except to one who knew him as well as Sam) appreciation of Gaffer’s prideful, if erroneous, boast.

‘So it’ll be your Uncle Andy borrerin’ your bed this year, Sam - our Ham’ll kip on the floor just fine.’ The rope stall was present at the Show every year under the care of Anson, Sam’s eldest cousin, and ever since he’d been ’prenticed to his uncle, Hamson had come along with it. Sam stopping over to help at the show left his place at home to be filled each night by his eldest brother; it was his chance to see the old smial again, and spend time with his dad and sisters.

‘So any road, as I were sayin’, sir, if it’s all the same to you, me and Andy’d be better off just borin’ usselves, and lettin’ you get your dinner in peace!’

‘I doubt it would be boring in the least,’ Frodo said politely. 

Sam was fairly sure that Frodo must have his fingers crossed behind his back whilst saying this, though he didn’t like to make it obvious by looking. From what he remembered of his Uncle Andy, his side of the conversation (once the dissection of relatives and mutual friends had been satisfactorily dealt with) would be as full of hemp and twist and gauge and whatever other things fascinated the rope-obsessed, as Gaffer’s side would be of cabbages and blight and weather and caterpillars. Neither would hear much of the other’s tale, but they would enjoy each other’s company immensely.

‘You are both more than welcome to join us should you change your mind,’ Frodo went on, then added (in what to Sam’s mind seemed a bit of a rush in case Gaffer _did_ make that change), ‘but if you’re sure, then Sam and I will be off. We’d like to try some of the sideshows before we meet up with the lasses!’

Frodo’s words chimed as nearly as ever with Sam’s own thought on this point, and they looked at each other expectantly.

‘Which first, Sam?’

‘Whichever’s nearest, sir!’ was Sam’s reply; his thought must remain unspoken.

 _So long as you are with me,_ my _Frodo for this while, then it matters little to me, where we go or what we do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  The [Downs](http://www.somis.dundee.ac.uk/~amdouglas/dales/aboutdales.htm) pony is just the sort of dual purpose animal that a discriminating hobbit pony fancier would approve  
> [Smallclothes](http://www.thefreedictionary.com/smallclothes) are not underwear  
> [Pattens](http://www.leatherandshoes.nl/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/pattens1.jpg) have been worn extensively through the ages to raise the feet from muddy roads before tarmacadam was a such univeral blessing - or maybe not. (For the theatrically inclined: they have much in common with buskins, though less solid to reduce weight.) Sam’s use of them is based on the fact that no-one could dig in bare feet for very long at all without injuring himself; if you dig for any length of time in any footwear the top of your spade/fork will wear it through - gardeners’ boots have a plate inserted to lessen both the wear and the discomfort. This is my solution to keeping Sam safe, you may have your own  
> (Gratuitously irrelevant url: I had no idea that we still have a [Guild of Pattenmakers](http://www.pattenmakers.co.uk/) \- I simply _love_ the Internet!)  
>  Tempting though it is to imagine Andwise – or perhaps Anson - Roper tripping featly over a ravine on a tightly strung rope, the truth is far more prosaic. A [ropewalk](http://web.archive.org/web/20091025124539/http://geocities.com/dazxtm/ropery.htm) is simply the distance over which the twist of a rope is made. It may have been just such a long, narrow shed - as here, right; for less affluent ropers it would be no more than a line of bushes to protect them from wind and weather  
> And Gaffer’s Whitedrop [goosegogs](http://www.plant-lore.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/1024px-Gooseberries-900x675.jpg) were believed to be a cross between Golden Drop and Whitesmith, but he was _very_ secretive about the whole thing


	6. Show Day the First - Midday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which are games, revelations, flawed mathematics, food, family news, a meeting and a thankfully erroneous conclusion
> 
> Rating: Almost as mind-numbingly G

By the time that they arrived back where Beechnut was dozing gently, the sun stood directly overhead. Even second breakfast seemed an age ago, now, and the pastrycook's sausage rolls had been too small and quickly eaten to blunt their hunger much at all, even on a second try. 

Each of them had a prize to his name already, although the honking geese had proved as elusive as ever. The hobbit lad paid to provide the honks had worn thin his enthusiasm for the task even before his legs had tired of pedalling the crank that made the two rows of geese bob alternately. His level of application was certainly hit and miss, but the saying was unfortunately even more true of Frodo’s and Sam’s efforts. Though they paid for two turns each, every ball thrown had landed just exactly where a mouth – each one the end of a hollowed branch painted white and tipped with orange - had gaped only seconds _before_.

But Frodo had finally latched the hook of his improvised fishing line through the loop on one of the luridly yellow ducklings floating on a hooped half-barrel pond. And on his third attempt, Sam had managed to throw one of his bean bags hard enough – hitting was never a problem, the knack was to hit in exactly the right place and with exactly the right amount of force - to knock over the stone bottle of ginger beer he was now carrying, somewhat carefully, it had to be said. It’d need to settle a bit after the thwamp it took, or the stuff’d froth out all over him when he opened it. Frodo’s prize, rather thankfully, was not the dangling wooden shape he’d caught but a useful little tablet and pencil for note-taking. The fact that they could have bought these things for rather less than their turns had cost was ignored; the laughter and teasing they had shared in the trying were worth every penny, to Sam’s way of thinking.

The idea of lunch was seeming better by the minute and they set to the preparations eagerly, Sam shaking out the blanket on which they would sit, and Frodo beginning to unstrap the basket. A sudden chatter of voices announced the arrival of Sam's sisters, but the first clear (and rather cutting) words were undoubtedly spoken by Rose Cotton. 

Sam sighed. Not that he had anything against Rosie, really. Nothing at all. 

Except for the fact that he had overheard the solemn oath that she and Marigold had sworn, each to marry the other’s brother. Though they were both by far too young to be thinking of such things as yet, he knew just how serious was Mari in her quiet pursuit of Tom Cotton. In so small a smial, he could not help but be privy to the whisperings as she sought the advice of her elder sisters on this point. But Sam had no mind whatever to provide the fourth corner to so convenient a square.

‘… no better than she ought to be,’ Rosie were saying, in no small echo of her mother, ‘for all she’s who she is. Bein’ raised without your ma to guide you don’t have to mean growin’ up to be an arrant flirt, for none of you three is!’

Sam weren’t entirely sure that Rosie had that aright, though he’d never have dreamed of saying so aloud; and if the adage about pots calling kettles black also entered his mind, he kept that to himself, too. But just what excuse she thought she had for inviting herself along to Mr Frodo’s picnic were anybody’s guess, for her family were here in force, Sam had seen them, and she should be eating with them, not here where she weren’t wanted. Not by Sam, she weren’t.

‘Well, she’s the only chick her mam ever had, poor motherless thing. And her dad never married again to get himself an heir neither, so he’ll be watching extra careful to see who Miss Merry-Drawers finally settles on.’ That were Daisy's famously sharp tongue, excusing her target before succinctly skewering her.

‘If she’s not careful, she may not end up with a choice so much as a seven month babe!’ came Rosie’s retort.

Some _body’s got Rosie’s back up, and no mistake!_ Sam wanted to laugh at what he recognised as the smug self-righteousness of a lass with a grudge, but he shook his head solemnly instead, ducking aside to hide his glee. The next words, though, totally took away any desire to laugh.

‘Sam?’ Marigold came around the trap and into view. ‘Sam, do you know what that Betony Meridew has been and gone and done?' Sam could almost see indignation fighting curiosity for the upper hand. 'She’s only been and got one of your roses as you seemingly didn’t need, and pinned it to her breast, bold as you please!’ 

And all that he could think was, at least she had made the effort to find a pin. 

He was miserably aware of being the centre of attention, but the only question he really heard was Frodo’s. 

‘Sam?’ Frodo had paused his unpacking, a rolled napkin of silverware in hand. ‘I thought you said that you didn’t want anyone else to see your rose until after it had been judged?’

‘No, but - I’d a spare one, see, sir, as were too open to use. And Mr Meridew were looking at it, while we was talking - and then Miss Betony came up and she fair liked it too, and—and she knew I weren’t using it, and when she asked - well, I couldn’t really say no, could I?’ Sam was silently begging Frodo’s forgiveness; no matter that Frodo couldn’t know it, the rose was his and not Sam’s to bestow elsewhere.

‘No. No, I don’t suppose that you could,’ Frodo said quietly.

‘I—’ Sam wished he’d said all this earlier, but it hadn’t seemed important then. Frodo was obviously disappointed, though, that he hadn’t been told and it might be best to get all out in the open, now the chance were offered. ‘I’ve been asked up to Meridew Hall Farm, too, sir. Mr Meridew's invited me to see round his glass house and frames and what not. He’s bred some beautiful flowers you know, sir. Them winter pansies we always have by the door, and the big autumn daisies outside Mr Bilbo’s window, they’re all his Hall Farm strains—’ He realised that this could so easily turn into babbling, and prudently stopped before he made a right fool of himself. 

The lasses were quiet, taking in what Sam was saying and – he could _feel_ it – adding in the strictures they had been voicing as they arrived. Complicated sums might be beyond them, but putting two and two together to form a generous five was many a Shirelass’s speciality.

But there were more to tell, and he rather thought he’d best get it over with.

‘And I’m to ask Mr Bilbo if Mr Pasco might come up to Bag End to have a look at the roses as they grow, and to see that new way I got for pruning the currants, and…’ He tailed off; it must be the lasses, watching and weighing up his every word, as made this so difficult to own to.

‘I see. Of course.’ 

But _did_ he? That look were the next best thing to a frown, in Sam’s experience; and when Frodo spoke slow and deliberate like that, it usually meant that he had at least second thoughts on the matter in question.

‘Us gardeners, you know, sir - we like to swap plants, and garden notions…’

‘Yes, I realise that. I do know how excited Bilbo can be, over a new plant, and of course he has had dealings with Pasco before now, though there was a difference of opinion - over a double lily, I think it was – several years ago and they’ve never been quite so friendly since. Though he did say recently that it really was time to let bygones be bygones.’ He seemed about to add more, but instead turned back to the basket and the taking out of their lunchtime provisions - still, Sam were sure, mulling over the ins and outs of it.

Sam had always felt a certain tension in the air whenever Hall Farm plants were named at Bag End, though nothing had ever been said and they were obtained and planted quick enough when needed. He realised now that it _were_ rather odd that there shouldn’t be more coming and going than none, between two gentlehobbits so very interested in plants and flowers; one of them more hands-on than the other, true, but Mr Bilbo’s interest were real, and his knowledge right deep – he just didn’t do his own digging and planting and whatnot. For which Sam were very grateful – he’d be out working elsewhere right this minute if Mr Bilbo had ever taken such a notion into his head. Sam shuddered to think of all that his life would have lacked, in such case: stories, books, being able to read - _Frodo!_ It really didn’t bear dwelling on at all.

As things stood, his future seemed secure enough, Mr Bilbo being too well on in years to do anything of the sort; and when the day arrived - hopefully long in the future - that Mr Bilbo were no longer with them, Sam would be needed more than ever under Frodo’s aegis. Despite his real appreciation of their beauty, Bag End’s gardens would quickly slip into a state of bleak and barren emptiness, should Frodo decide to take over their care and he knew it. Such things had to be faced. There was definitely such a thing as having green fingers - Sam gave thanks regularly and often for the fact that he seemed to have inherited his from his Gaffer (though, as far as he could tell, it were simply a case of loving your plants just that bit more). 

But over and above that, it was even more definitely possible to possess Black Thumbs. Hobbits thus blighted tended to be blessed - by way of compensation, Sam assumed – with abilities in more scholarly areas. To be able to capture in words the crumpled-tissue delicacy of a barely pink poppy, or the shy pallor and elusive scent of the early primrose, was at least as valuable a skill in Sam’s eyes as being able to grow them; to gladden hearts in their re-creation on frosty nights from which the prospect of warmth and fragrance and colour seemed too far away to be borne. 

But it seemed that Frodo’s ability with numbers weren’t as keen as his language skills; it looked to Sam very much as if his tally about matched the lasses’ for generosity - if for very different reasons, of course - and Sam gadding off to Hall Farm weren’t going to set him right on that, now were it? But surely Frodo _knew_ he'd no need to worry that Sam would ever abandon Bag End to other hands and go off to garden elsewhere? Visiting a place, and upping sticks to go and work there, were two very different things; the one would likely be quite interesting, the other far more a penance than a job.

It occurred to him to wonder now just _why_ he’d been invited – _It couldn’t have been—?_ No, the invitation had been given before Miss Betony came along so it weren’t her influence. Maybe Mr Meridew too had simply realised that it were time the rift between Bag End and the Hall Farm were healed? Or maybe, since he were obviously a fair bit younger than Gaffer, let alone Mr Bilbo, he were looking to the next generation of gardeners? Having found that Sam had plants and ideas of his own to distribute, he thought he might get in on the smial floor, so to speak? 

Sam already nurtured a profound hope that Miss Betony might be elsewhere engaged on that day; and he had been hoping very much that it would be possible to suggest that Frodo might like to go along with him. For once, delight in Frodo's company would play second fiddle to the protection he might provide; happen Sam might be making far more of the sprightly looks than he were meant to - being that ways did tend to be just that bit freer at the Show - but he’d rather be safe than sorry. And maybe if Frodo were to share the gadding he’d see it aright, and not go thinking any more into it than need be? 

‘Perhaps, since Bilbo is intent upon reconciliation, Sam, I might even come along with you,’ Frodo said casually, as he unrolled lettuce from within its damp towel.

Sam almost dropped the egg and cress rolls he were putting onto a plate, more than ever convinced that there were times (not all the time, thank goodness, or he really _would_ be looking elsewhere for a position) when Frodo could read his mind. 

‘I haven’t visited in years,' he added, 'and it would only be polite, wouldn’t it, if relations are to be re-established between Bag End and Hall Farm?’

'Yessir, that would be a fine idea!' Sam said, but his relief at Frodo's suggestion vanished suddenly as he saw Daisy’s eyes widen and realised that her reckoning had gone well beyond five. The others didn’t seem to have picked it up yet, for Mari and May were still smirking and Rosie glowering. Sam himself would definitely rather not think on it; but Daisy seemed to be having no bother at all with an easy leap from the implications of a flirty lass wearing her brother's wondrous new rose to the putting together, henceforth, of Frodo Baggins with Betony Meridew - probably coming up with a Spring wedding, too, from the looks of her.

Well, some troubles he really didn’t need to borrow just yet. Right now, there were a different sort of worrisome lass to be dealt with, and this one Sam _could_ manage for there were no two ways about where Rosie should be, and it weren’t here.

‘Where’s _your_ wagon, then, Rosie?’ he asked, rather pointedly.

‘Oh. Next field over, I think,’ Rosie said hesitantly.

‘Be naught left, ‘twixt your mam and dad and all your brothers, if’n you don’t get a move on!’ No matter that there may be all the food that Gaffer would have eaten, going to spare now. It were no-one’s right but Frodo’s to invite anyone to his picnic, and if Rose Cotton thought she could come barging in like this without so much as a by-your-leave, she could just have another think coming.

'Oh, yes...’ She paused, half-looking at Frodo from under her lashes. 

But Frodo didn't seem even to see her as he gave all his concentration to their picnic, busily unwrapping patties and setting the jar of chutney where its sharp tang might not go unnoticed. Without a word, he laid out just five plates on the white cloth that Bilbo had provided, and matched them with five mugs. Sam’s grin almost threatened to burst from hiding though he did his best, for he really had no wish to hurt Rosie’s feelings, only to be shut of her as fast as possible.

Daisy suddenly realised what was afoot, and said kindly, ‘You get yourself off now, Rosie. Mari'll wait and you can meet back here when you’ve done with your own lunch!’

‘Bye, then,’ Rose said in a subdued voice.

‘Bye, Rosie!’ Sam added his farewell to his sisters’, in a very encouraging tone.

The meal proceeded far more pleasantly after her departure. The subject of Betony Meridew was dropped, though doubtless Sam would hear whispers through Number 3 time and again in the days to come - good gossip was always stretched till it was too thin to stand. For now, the lasses were full of all that they had seen and done that morning, and of the many long-missed friends and relatives (for even the unpopular were graced by time and distance) whom they had met, or at the least caught sight of and made a note to seek out once more before the day was done.

Then Daisy had all of Hamson’s news to impart, which she did with a lightly humorous touch. Sam really appreciated her telling, knowing perfectly well that had he heard this from his brother himself, it would have had all the charm of a very short grocery list. She sketched her entertaining (if not entirely accurate) picture of his life as a roper, but saved the most juicy titbit of news until almost the end of the meal.

‘AND…he’s a’courting, is our Ham!’

‘No! When’d he tell you that? I never heard that!’ 

‘Well, you might have done if you hadn't been so busy flirting with that lad as come to buy a couple of haynets on account of they’d left theirs at home this morning!’

‘I was _not_ flirting!’

‘May Gamgee!’ It wasn’t just Daisy’s voice, but Marigold’s too; Sam suppressed his desire to make the chorus three, and exchanged a grin with Frodo instead. 

‘Well, I warn’t _really_ flirting – just practising, you know!’ 

Sam hid a cough in his mug of ginger beer (it had settled well, and were a good one from a plant with plenty of bite but no bitterness), and Frodo’s splutter into his _could_ simply have meant that a little of it had gone down the wrong way.

‘Well, come on then, tell, tell!’ May said, grinning but obviously in as much need of a change of subject as of the information.

Daisy did her best with the sparse material her brother had provided. He was a taciturn hobbit at the best of times, but it seemed that being in love had dried up Hamson’s descriptive powers completely. The best she could tell of the lucky lass’s looks was that he supposed she were pretty - very pretty if he were pushed; that her hair were the colour of Daisy’s own, or perhaps a little more like May’s; that her eyes were brown, ‘or maybe that funny colour of our Sam’s’; and she were ‘happen as tall as Mari though she might be a bit less’. She was apparently a very good cook and the only daughter in a smial of five sons – two of them ropers with Uncle Andy, which explained how Ham had come to meet her in the first place; and was looking forward to setting up home with a hobbit of her own to feed. Sam could sense Daisy’s dissatisfaction with the tale to which she spun such valiant flourishes of her own, and he silently applauded the dedication it must have taken to get even this much to work on.

‘—and they’re to be wed come Rethe, and them of us as can't make it to the wedding, she’ll meet when she comes to the Show with our Ham next year. Mark my words, a year or so and Gaffer’ll have the little ’uns he keeps hinting for!'

Daisy had her own devoted admirer in Linton Oldburrow, but she seemed in no hurry to wed and provide the grandchildren Gaffer were on about; principally, Sam knew, because the couple must then move into the farmstead that Lin would one day inherit, and which Lin’s Gammer still ran with a rod of iron. Sam remained unsure whether Daisy was hoping she’d soften in her old age (she was nigh on a hundred now, so maybe not) or waiting for her to pop off (but the Oldburrows were known to live long and active lives, even well beyond their century); but he knew for a fact that it weren’t only Betony Meridew as could find herself with a seven month babe. 

There were nights when Lin came a’visiting, and Sam himself out in the warm darkness behind The Hill with business of his own to conduct, when he heard soft but unmistakably rising and quickening sounds that made his own fumblings seem not just contrary to what he ought to be doing – _would_ be doing, could he but have the right hobbit to do them with - but sad and lonely too. On such nights, once he’d taken himself out of earshot of the loving couple, there’d be tears too, to greet his whispered shout of Frodo’s name.

Story-telling failed to hamper Daisy’s appetite – she never talked with her mouth full neither, Sam had noticed on more than one occasion and wondered how she managed it; all them dramatic pauses, he suspected - and her listeners had only to eat and attend, so it wasn’t very long before there was scarce a scrap of food to be seen of the more than generous lunch Mr Bilbo had provided for them. Bag End’s third best plates were empty of all but a few stray crumbs and an odd smear of chutney or of mustard. The thick glass dishes had been relieved of the truly excellent sherry-fruit trifle with its topping of stiffly whipped cream, and fingers had even been smeared discreetly around them so as not to miss a single smidgeon of the goodness they had held. (Sam had been uncertain at first as to whether his sudden dizziness were a result of the extremely high alcoholic content Mr Bilbo considered essential to the composition of any self-respecting trifle, or the sight of Frodo’s tongue swiping the last vestiges of cream from his fingers; but when it passed off with the disappearance of the latter he were left in no doubt whatever.) 

As the eldest Gamgee present, Daisy spoke for all of them. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Frodo, that was a wonderful spread – you can tell we fair enjoyed it, for we don’t seem to have left much at all!’ The last came out rather apologetic.

‘Don’t be silly, Daisy!' Frodo said with a grin, surveying the extremely sparse remnants. 'It’s the finest compliment that Bilbo could wish for – to have everything eaten even though Gaffer _wasn’t_ here. I think, myself, that we did his offerings rather proud, don’t you?’

‘When you put it like that, sir, we certainly did! Tell you what, if you and our Sam want to get back while everywhere’s a bit quieter, me and May and Marigold’ll pack things away and leave all tidy, sir. Mari’s to wait for Rosie anyway, and I don’t think Sam’s that keen to see her again just yet, are you, Sam?’ 

She grinned slyly at her brother, who wanted to sink through the blanket and into the grass beneath, and was more than grateful when Frodo came to his rescue.

‘Thank you, Daisy, we may just do that. The Rides were terribly busy this morning. Did any of you get a turn on anything?’

‘Well, I managed a go on the Merry-go-round, but only ‘cause Jem Whittier hauled me up in front of him at the last minute. What?’ May looked back at her sisters. ‘ _What?_ I were only riding with him!’

‘You go riding that close to a hobbit lad, young lady, and happen you could end up with more than you bargained for!’ Daisy had always tried to fulfil a mother’s role for her sisters; it must get more difficult the older they got, Sam thought now.

‘Happen I did, then!’ May countered pertly, then turned aside to try – without success – to hide a face as red as would have won any blushing contest, hands down.

Frodo caught Sam’s eye, and a touch of rose warmed his cheek suddenly; Sam blushed nigh on as red as May had done, and they both looked away again. 

Frodo took a deep breath, gathering his composure it seemed to Sam, though he doubted that the lasses would have noticed aught. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Thank you Daisy, it would be most helpful, if you would do that for us. Thank you for your company, and for your very entertaining lunchtime tale, and we shall probably see you on the Show-field this afternoon - but if we don’t, have a good time!

‘Come on Sam! There’s at least a swing-boat, if not a painted pony, with our names on it! On them!’ he amended quickly, in light of what Daisy had said, but this time they were a few steps away from the trap, and there was really only Sam to notice the brighter tint of his cheeks. He cleared his throat at the same moment as Sam did that very thing. 

Their glances crossed, and they both laughed, for embarrassment to begin with, then at their silliness, at May’s flirtiness, at Daisy’s efforts to control her, at Hamson’s reticence, at gossipy lasses in general and at nothing in particular, except that it was a beautiful day, and that there could be few better places to be than in good company at the Four Farthings Show.

As they hurried past the massive tent where judging was still going on apace (probably a little quicker now as the judges thought about the luncheon that they were missing) the lacing on the doorway suddenly seemed to whip itself open – no hands visible on the outside, of course - and Bilbo’s head popped out.

‘Frodo! How fortunate - I thought I should have to send a lad who’d probably not get it at all right. I need you to go over to the little tent and find—’ His head withdrew and there seemed to be muttering from inside.

‘Look, Sam, I’ll do whatever it is that Bilbo needs,' Frodo said. 'I think you should stake places for us in one of the queues – whichever is shorter, yes? I’ll be there as soon as I can!’

‘If you’re sure, sir.’ Sam was well on his way to the Rides before Frodo actually set about whatever Mr Bilbo had in mind, and already in the line for the swing-boats – not a long one and if Frodo didn’t move a bit smartish, their turn might have to slip back a few places - and looking idly around, before Frodo could return on his errand. 

Sam kept an eye on the boat at the left hand end of the row. For no reason he could tell - he knew full well they should be all the same, having helped put them up – but that one seemed to skim a bit smoother and rise just that bit higher, and he hoped very much that when their turn came, that one might fall vacant. Not likely, he knew, and anyway it were probably all in his mind anyway, but—

His wandering thoughts stuttered to a complete standstill. His eyes had roved of their own accord in search of Frodo - over toward the small striped tent where the judges’ effects were kept and where he might still be – and there _was_ Frodo. But there also was Betony Meridew.

Sam would recognise anywhere the shape of Frodo’s back, but he could see Betony almost full on - and the smudge of crimson-black that had to be Frodo's rose.

She didn’t look to be treating Frodo to a display of her wiles, though. Her face seemed as serious as was possible for anyone with a dimple to look, and the conversation was obviously deeply interesting, for they stood for several minutes before turning and walking away side by side - away from Sam. 

_Oh!_

Sam knew he ought to kick himself. He’d resolved to let Frodo be, after lunch, hadn’t he, and here he were still, clinging like a burr in a thicket where he weren’t wanted. It didn’t look like Frodo would be coming to share a Ride with Sam, not when there were so much better company to keep - he’d probably just come over to excuse himself, and that’d be that.

 _Stupid!_ Setting aside that Betony were a lass – and Daisy obviously convinced she’d be _the_ lass, though Sam's mind stubbornly refused to think about that just yet – it made sense that Mr Frodo would want to spend time with gentlehobbits and not just his gardener. You didn’t go on a day out – actually three whole days, which made it far worse – to be trapped alongside a servant you could chat with, if needs must, any time at all back at Bag End.

Sam bent his head to hide the hurt that must show in his face, let alone the tears he could feel trying their best to well out and betray him. Setting his back to the Show-field, the queue, and any passing face as might be watching him, he scuffled in his pocket for his handkerchief – none too clean after he’d used it a few times to wipe his hands, but it’d have to do – and blew into it. It were big enough that he could give his eyes a dab without it being obvious what he were at.

‘Sam?’ Sam actually jumped as the hand rested on his shoulder for a moment. ‘I’m sorry it took so long, Sam. I was held up a little. Goodness – much longer and we’d have missed our turn, though you could have gone without me!’ Frodo was panting, as though he had run to get here.

‘I’d not have done that, sir. Wouldn’t be the same without you.’ Sam's voice was a little husky with the remaining choke of tears, but his smile felt to be cracking his face wide open.

He didn’t understand why Frodo should be here, back with Sam when he could be sharing his afternoon with a pretty lass like Betony Meridew, who might even be— _No, not now, not yet!_

Frodo was _here_. His eyes were sparkling and his face alight at the prospect of this Ride, and for Sam that could be more than enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  Ginger beer - time was, you could find a[ pop maker in every street](http://web.archive.org/web/20050204185226/http://www.thebottledump.co.uk/frames.htm) (Obsolete site, pics gone, but Wayback still provides!)  
> Sam's - Frodo's - [poppy](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/poppy.jpg) and [primrose](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/primvulg.jpg); and Bilbo's - Pasco's? - [double Lily](http://photos.somd.com/data/500/sif45.jpg)


	7. Show Day the First - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When is a boat not a boat? _When it's a swing-boat?_
> 
> **Rating** : Tangled tight 'twixt metaphor and dream. Probably not G, though...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't believe that any of you will really require **A/N** here. *cough* 
> 
> A very short chapter but one which is, I hope, not entirely devoid of compensation for those who can take the possibilities latent within figurative speech, and wring the very last ounce of hidden meaning from simile and metaphor (trans: those with a dirty mind and a good eye/ear for inference, allusion, implication... Though there is, I hope, more to it than that.)

Before many more minutes had passed they were climbing a short ladder to the endmost swing-boat – the very one that Sam had decided to be indefinably better than its fellows - to take a seat at either end of their curving craft, feet braced firm on the centre board for purchase.

‘I didn’t think that you cared much for boats, Sam!’ Frodo said, as he took first turn upon the rope, its sallie softly worn beneath his hands. His long and leisurely haul set their boat fully adrift and passed control to Sam. 

‘How could I not like this, Mr Frodo?’ Sam gathered in the slack as his steady heave sent them higher. ‘But I think this is as near to one as I’d want to get!’

They gained speed as Frodo accepted the tension readily, drawing them away, returning it to Sam once more. A shared purpose needed no words, when trust answered trust that the other would be there and waiting; already the rhythm was fluid and easy between them, an unhurried harmony that was almost effortless, his pull to Frodo’s slack and turn about. 

Here was the triumph of cresting the height, as their boat swung sweetly through the air, swooping up until in only a little Sam might even touch the sky. A brief and endless pause - then the forgotten, familiar dip and roil of stomach as he pitched dizzyingly down once more, and Frodo was there above him, shade-dark against the huge emptiness of milky blue. Each soar and every plunge seemed to call forth a great smile of satisfaction, of accomplishment, until Sam felt sure that he must be grinning like a half-wit for happiness, but that Frodo were doing the same and he didn’t look half-witted, only flushed and joyous and beautiful.

‘This is more like flying, I should think, than anything else we could ever do!’ he called breathlessly to Sam.

Sam looked out beyond the Showfield that lay busily colourful on either hand. The Great East Road snaked a rising dust through the stretch of a hundred different greens, past the yellow of harvest-ripening corn, to the misty fade of distant hills. ‘I wonder if this is how Mr Bilbo felt, sir, when he got to ride his eagle?’

Frodo laughed. ‘If you remember, he kept his eyes closed, he was so scared of falling!’

Sam peered upwards - there was a tiny speck there, hovering so far on high that it might have been eagle or lark for all that he could tell. He tried to imagine what the Shire, what the Show, what _they_ might look like to those faraway eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I think I might have shut mine, too!’ 

They paused their efforts and lay back to savour this sensation - poised, oddly weightless, safe and yet unfettered. The chattering crowds and the raw jangle of the music box faded far, dispersed beneath the creak of rope and timber and a faint swoosh each time the boat reversed its course. This was a separate world, was only the glide of Frodo and Sam, to and fro, together. 

Were it possible, Sam would choose to linger long, sailing to this journey’s never-end with Frodo fair before him, or better - resting here right by his side. The constant, languid sweep spills delicious cool to drown all rush and clamour in the lap of silent waves, though Sam knows well that naught will long deny a nascent heat that has waited long already. 

Their tiny craft coasts leisurely now on skies clothed all in night, and they skim serene from star to Netted Star amongst a myriad shards of diamond shattered wide to beautify the dark. Dipping to the jewelled splendour of the Swordsman of the Sky, they swing on high to welcome Wedmath’s ice blue Wanderer upon his evening stroll. Their wake skirrs wide, in fine new starpaths, radiant spindrift feathering the sable midnight - small gift to requite this gift of gifts that they receive.

And Frodo wears only starlight, as husky velvet carries his question clear and aching across their cradle on the liquid dark.

_Could you love me, Sam?_

Sam’s reply is more than ready - on his lips no stumbling words, but affirmation keen within a kiss. Tilting with the dip of boat, he sinks to Frodo’s mouth, to the first unbelieving shivers of a long-desired caress. Deeper then, a plea purred low – Sam’s or Frodo’s matters not – that playful tongues may meet and curl and twine. The satin smooth of Frodo slides sleek against his sturdier warmth, no less urgent in his flaring want, until their bodies interlace and weave - rising as the brightest stars, high and ever higher, to meld a constellation all their own upon the endless skies.

A shimmer of pure joy slips lovingly from skin to skin, to the steady measure of this tranquil, sensuous rocking—

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=F-SStarshine.jpg)

Sam opened his eyes, and blinked; the brightness of this day had not been in their kiss, and nor was Frodo naked in his arms. Their boat had stilled suddenly, at journey’s end at last though none that he could know, only the end of their pennyworths come to them far too soon. They must slow back, go back to the real world once again. His breath caught sharp as flawed reality stole away his dream and left him naught but tatters; he must forsake the ecstacies of swoop and dive - of floating far beyond this world to love his Frodo freely out amongst the stars - and be but Samwise Gamgee once again, an earth-bound gardener and no more. 

He could not linger here. The queue of hobbits had begun to build again, right around the tall framework and out into the aisle; but more than that, there were mind and body to clear of such dangerous thoughts. Eyes fixed firmly on his feet, he waited politely for Frodo to climb down and followed him most carefully.

‘I—I almost nodded off, there, Sam, did you?’ Frodo’s face was flushed – embarrassed, Sam thought briefly, at his lapse of manners. (And ‘twere a good thing he didn’t seem to want to look Sam in the face, for Sam weren’t sure he could hide a blush as red as that one’d be.)

‘Yessir. It’s so very—soothing,’ he said lamely. He turned to the nearest stall, feigning deep interest whilst he took deep breaths, willing himself to calm.

‘Yes, I do know what you mean.’ Frodo cleared his throat. ‘We should come back for another turn, Sam. Perhaps when it’s a little less busy?’

Sam nodded. He wondered if another turn could give him back his flight of such real fantasy - and if it could, whether he would be wise to accept it, what with where it were so obviously leading him, and Frodo right there at the other end of the boat. He’d been torn between regret and relief at the interruption, but realised now that he’d take that dream back in a flash, and the consequences too. It weren’t as though he hadn’t practice in keeping quiet at critical moments – in a small smial, a lad soon learned to suppress all that he’d want to shout, the name that crowned his desperate efforts in the dark. Broad daylight’d be a different matter though, wouldn't it? He might keep quiet - and even still, the way his thoughts had worked so well upon him - but it’d surely show in his face, if nowhere else? But maybe, with the long days obviously catching up with him, Frodo would doze off for long enough for him to— And after, well yes, he’d need to— 

Drat consequences! Sam would take the swing-boats any time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I lied about the **A/N** – didn’t want to distract you…  
>  This is [sallie](http://www.cathedral.org/wrs/animation/ringer_animation.htm) in a different context - because I love the little cartoon - but with the same use: a section of the rope padded in some way, to make it softer on the hands  
> The hobbits’ Netted Stars are also _Remmirath_ \- our [Pleiades](http://www.astrosurf.com/bobo/fondecran/Pleiades.jpg); The Swordsman of the Sky was _Menelvagor_ with his - [Orion’s](http://www.pa.msu.edu/abrams/Programs/orion.jpg) \- shining belt; and Wedmath’s Wanderer is [Sirius](http://digilander.libero.it/Bologna16/stelle/sirius-star.jpg), our Dog Star and the Elves’ _Helluin_ (trans: icy blue), which rises in August. For the first two, see _LotR_ , and the meeting with Gildor Inglorion in _Three is Company_. The three constellations run, roughly, North to South. I could not claim to be even the most casual of astronomers, so I must hope not to have erred too badly – and it is, after all, but Sam’s fantasy…
> 
> Yes, quite true - I did let myself get carried away. They enjoyed it, though. You? 
> 
> *resolves to return to severely practical task*


	8. Show Day the First - Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which are breathing space and bulges - before long shadows are cast
> 
> The pendulum (or boat) swings right back again. So - ever more boringly G

By unspoken agreement, they wandered slowly away from the Rides. Sam needed something, _any_ thing that might take his mind off—yes, this would do.

‘What—?’ Frodo cleared this throat again. ‘What are you—? Oh. _Jumpers_ , Sam?’ 

‘Yessir,’ Sam said. Aye, this were just what he needed – a stall full of practical, everyday knitted stuff to look at; it'd give him chance to fetch his over-active imaginings back to ground level again, and himself into some sort of order besides.

The stall was watched over by a pair of cheerful hobbitwives. They sat comfortably by, deft fingers busy as they awaited custom, weaving each woollen strand through the steady dance of hands and needles. There was little need, seemingly, to watch the work as it grew, when that quietly clicking rhythm said the step was kept aright. They were free to exchange greetings with (and opinions on) the many hobbits who passed before them, some pausing to chat, not a few lingering to buy. Sam knew the two for upland folk, as were all - shepherd and wife alike - whose making was spread for sale so proudly; nowhere else in the Shire had so rich a tradition of complex patterns. This once a year they’d bring their handiwork to sell for an income extra to the shepherding pay. The very finest would, of course, be under judgement in the big tent right now, though there were examples here that were scarcely less skilled. 

His mam had taught Sam to knit, but these stitches looked to be a way beyond his reach. They were wonderful, Sam thought, knitted into guernseys that kept at bay the biting cold of winter watches and spring lambing as easily as they’d warm a carter on a long and thankless drive, or a gardener as he battled bitter wind to clear storm damage or repair a suddenly rickety fence. Here the curdle of Fleece stitch lay thick and knobbly between alternating Spindles, there a zig-zag of Hurdles divided a furry raise of Lamb’s Tail from the tight roundels of the Wheel; and throughout all, the Distaff looped its continuous thread from one to another and another, wedding the compass of sheep and shepherding to the industry of card and spin and knit. These almost waterproof ganseys, still redolent of natural lanolin from the fleece, were worn and prized for outdoor work throughout the Shire.

‘I’ve always fancied having a go at something this complicated, sir,’ Sam said - for Frodo too seemed greatly interested by the garments laid out before them.

‘You can _knit_ , Sam?’

Sam was a little hurt by the disbelief in Frodo’s voice. ‘Mam taught us all to knit, sir. She always reckoned that a hobbit as could knit need never be short of summat warm to wear. You can unravel, and re-use - make two into one if need be - many a time afore the wool’s worn to shreds. Not that we’ve ever been so hard pushed, thanks be! I’ve not done much for a while, neither – it’s mittens I go through so fast I’d not have time to replace them but for having sisters with nimbler fingers. But my—’

‘Your hat!’ Frodo said. ‘With the earpieces and that little crest, that you wore when it was really cold – you made that?’

‘Aye, and the scarf.’ 

‘I remember thinking it looked rather like a winged—’ 

‘—helmet?’ Sam asked in the same minute.

‘You meant it to!’

‘It’s why I knitted them extra pieces over, yes, sir. Near as I could get to wings without looking a fool! I told Mari they’re to keep me warmer, but I’m not sure she believes me. I just wanted to see whether I could, and what it would look like.’ Sam blushed a little for his imaginings. But the double layers over his ears _were_ very practical, for all he’d patterned them fancier than need be; and a bit of a crest weren’t that much different from a bobble when you came to think about it.

He felt himself blush again under the look that Frodo gave him now. ‘I don’t think, Sam Gamgee, that I shall ever take anything you say or do at face value again! I shall ever be looking for hidden meanings from now on!’

Sam mumbled 'Mr Frodo!' and turned away quickly. If Frodo knew what he’d been thinking not ten minutes back, he’d probably never speak to him again for what he kept buried the deepest of all. But he’d a measure of control again now, and as they moved along, he felt ready to take on whatever the next sideshow might offer. 

Hoopla seemed like a right good idea - he knew how accurate his throw could be, and took six wooden rings in exchange for his ha’penny with some confidence. It was just unfortunate that the rules - explained by the stallholder as well as pictured large above the game – made it quite clear that it weren’t enough to get your ring over the prize you were after. Each one stood on a raised wooden block, not that much smaller than the inside of the hoop, and you’d to get it right over that _and_ lying flat on the table, afore you could claim your winnings. Easier said than done – if the dratted thing didn’t snag on whatever part stuck out most of whatever you were throwing for, it’d come to rest _just_ cocked up on one corner of the little platform. Sam paid for two goes before admitting defeat, then gave up hope and stood back to watch Frodo, who seemed to have more the way of it – though even he had a job getting the ring to drop the last little bit. That wrist flick were perfect, Sam judged as he watched; not without another thought - fleeting and immediately quashed - as to where _else_ such a flick might prove effective.

Frodo’s next-to-last hoop swung itself twice around the object he’d aimed for, teetered for a moment, and then dropped flat onto the table. Sam cheered, and Frodo made him a mock bow and laughed, before taking aim with his last ring; the flick again, and a second prize fell to his single ha’pennyworth of hoops. Despite the double success, his prizes were handed over with a good grace.

Frodo accepted the first gaudy fairing readily enough – a matchholder and striker would always be of some use, even if destined to become little more than a mathom (such things came in very handy for those whose birthdays fell in the months which followed GAFFS). In this case, the matches were stored in a tiny basket on the back of a brightly clad hobbit and were struck on the back of his extravagantly spotted dog. Cheap and cheerful was always the order of the day for such - brought in special from Bree, it was said, or even beyond.

The second item – plainly glazed and so different from the other pottery on offer – gave rise to a puzzled look. ‘What in the Shire is it, Sam?’ 

_It_ consisted of a deepish pot with a curled out rim, and flanges reaching up to support its lid - a little conical roof which fitted snugly leaving gaps between.

‘If you didn’t know, sir, why did you want to win it?’ Sam asked.

‘It was more a case of what looked to be the easiest things to ring, Sam – I wasn’t thinking so much about what they _were_!’

‘It’s still a frippery piece of nonsense, sir, like most of the prizes here, except that this one does have more of a use.’

‘Which is? It’s far too small to be a bird house – even a wren would find it hard going to squeeze through those slots!’

Sam grinned at Frodo’s attempt to make sense of the object Sam was holding for him; this insatiable interest in their world made just one more reason to love him. ‘Well, Mr Frodo, sir,’ he said in a teasing tone, ‘did you but tend your own lettuces, you might well have a few of these!’ His thoughts on Black Thumbs were best left lie.

‘Because?’ And Frodo smiled too, recognising the tact as well as the tease.

‘Because it’s a slug trap. And before you say it, sir - yes, they _could_ just crawl in and out, smart as you please. It needs the addition of a simple ingredient for bait.’

Frodo asked the question with a raised eyebrow.

‘Beer, sir.’

‘Beer? Slugs like _beer_?’

‘Love it, sir! They get drunker than a Sandyman on a Highday night, and end up falling in—’ if Frodo noticed the slight pause as Sam gave a quick thought to the inordinate amount of luck with which Ted must be blessed, living above The Water as he did, he made no remark upon it, ‘—and them as don’t drown are so befuddled, they don’t make it home, and you can collect them up easy enough. A few of these sunk into your soil – that little rim’s to raise it up a touch so’s the ground beetles don’t dash in headlong and drown theirselves. No gardener'd waste his beetles like that.’ The brow went up again, and Sam added, ‘They eat a lot of your pests for you, sir. Now, a few of these traps, rightly placed overnight and baited with a drop of ale – leftovers if there be such to hand, for slugs don't seem fussy as to a froth on it – and come morning you have a potful of happily drowned slugs and your lettuces _aren’t_ just so much shredded green lace!’

‘Really? Then why have I never seen any of these at Bag End?’ Frodo challenged. ‘Our lettuces are always perfect.’

‘Thank you sir! Well, you've not seen any such 'cause I don’t waste Mr Bilbo’s money on fripperies. Every mug and cup with a chip or broken handle takes its retirement down the garden with me, and that’s what I use. I leave them sticking up a bit, on account of the beetles, and it’s true that they don’t have them fetching little hats to keep rain from watering down the beer, but they do well enough if they're always on the go, and I’ve a few bits of tile I can prop over them for cover if need be. And each morning, afore you’re about,’ he said blandly, ‘I collect them up and empty them, ready to use again, which is why you don’t see any such.’

‘And what do you do with the corpses, compost them?’ Frodo laughed aloud now, enjoying Sam’s explanation, and acknowledging his little dig, but Sam knew that his curiosity extended even to the ultimate fate of beer-guzzling garden pests.

‘If I must, but mostly I drain them into a bucket – the beer’s reusable a time or two. In fact—’ it were one of them tales as were funny yet didn’t bear thinking on too close, ‘—the bottle I keep it in, out in the shed, were emptied by somebody or other, one day early in the summer. I’m thinking there’s a lad in Hobbiton somewhere who came looking for mischief and found himself a bellyache instead!’

‘Ugh, _Sam_!’ 

They grinned and screwed up their noses as one, sharing amusement mixed with revulsion in more or less equal measure.

‘Any road, whenever there’s a fairish catch of slugs, I takes them down to Daddy Twofoot for his hens. Waste not, want not, and he reckons as meat or eggs from a bird that’s fed on such has a better flavour than he can get any other way – setting aside that he has a laugh when the beer hits them, too!’

‘Sam, you never cease to amaze me!’

Frodo looked at him now with _such_ an expression on his face. If only his sincere admiration for Sam’s gardening know-how (which were all just a learned knack, really) could just slide itself from Sam Gamgee, the gardener, to Sam Gamgee, the hobbit who really couldn’t help being so very much in love with Frodo Baggins... He blushed and looked down at the slug trap in his hands lest his longing should show on his face and give him away. 

_No sense wishing for the moon, Sam – just to be thankful to enjoy its light!_

‘My pockets are bigger nor yours, sir,’ he said aloud, ‘so I’ll carry this if you like.’ He slipped the pot into one capacious pocket and its lid into the other, with a brief thought as to the useful cover that such lumps and bumps in his breeches might provide for less innocent bulges, as and when the need arose. As it were. But then, as Frodo eased the match-holder into one of his tighter pockets, Sam had the distinct impression – _Surely not?_ \- but he definitely ought not to be staring like this, let alone letting his imagination to run away with him. He looked away, to whatever distraction might be offered next stall down for there were still plenty that they'd not seen or tried as yet. 

They worked their way steadily from one to another and another, inspecting the goods and skills on sale and trying more of the games than not. Soon both of them were sporting pockets a little more bulgy from fairings fairly won, and Sam had begun to think rather fondly of the coming of teatime. He was just wondering how long it would take them to sample the other delights this aisle had to offer and then get along to the refreshment tent - hopefully before too many others took the same notion into their heads - when the line of stalls gave way to a different attraction.

One of the brightly-painted Traveller vans had been pulled into place between open stalls and covered booths; wooden steps leading up through the shafts invited entrance. A board propped beside them showed an overlarge hand, the lines on its palm deeply etched; behind it a pack of cards was spread, overlapping, the images clear and colourful but also somehow portentous. Unusually for a Traveller, a name and more were written in red - all fancy flourishes with gilded highlights, and shadowed in black. _Mrs Silvia Lee_ , it warned solemnly, _Fortunes Told at Your Own Risk_. 

‘A fortune teller!’ Sam said. He had been tempted before now to try what one might say; in Frodo’s company, with all that he would wish between them, the temptation to know was well nigh irresistible. ‘Do you think she can really See, sir?’

‘I have to say I rather doubt it, Sam. Perhaps one or two of them may, but for most, I should think it’s simply a way of earning a few pence which is fun for the visitor.’ Sam couldn’t hide his disappointment, and Frodo appeared to reconsider. ‘She might well be one of the few, though – supposing that we find out? We can compare what she tells us, and even if she makes it all up, it will still be entertaining. The honeyed promises alone are said to be worth every penny!’ 

‘You go first then, sir.’

‘It was your idea, Sam – you should go first!’

‘No, sir, you—’

‘Well, come in, _one_ of you - don’t be dithering about down there all day, like sheep!’ 

Even as they blushed and sniggered a little, over Frodo’s less than complimentary words being overheard, he was nudging Sam forward, so he’d little option but to climb the steps up to the half-open door.

The voice had been clear and high, and Sam was not expecting Mrs Lee to be so old, sitting hunched over a small table covered with a plush cloth that had seen better days; it had a well-tended look though, that spoke of cold tea and regular brushing to bring up what nap were left, just like his mam had done. Daisy had never time for such since Mam died, and he hadn’t known till now how much he missed those small reminders - and he wondered what in the Shire had brought that into his head, now.

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

As he peered around, the wagon seemed far bigger inside than he’d expected. He and Frodo had tried to imagine how a hobbit might live life on the road, but this almost _was_ a smial on wheels – everything just folded into a very much smaller space. It were scrupulously tidy. He supposed you’d have to be keep it so, or you’d find yourself in a right state soon enough. The only thing to miss really, setting aside baths and such as Frodo had said, might _be_ a garden to tend all the days of the year. (He still reckoned though, that even without the flowerpots, the exchange would be more than fair.)

The curtains were drawn, and once he'd shut the door the only real light came from a single lamp that hung over the table and from the deep glow of coals through the bars of the fire. It was very warm, and a sweetish vapour Sam didn’t recognise lay heavy on the air; it couldn’t quite hide the aroma from a stew, simmering quietly in its pot over the tiny hearth, or a faint, dusty undercurrent of lavender.

‘Well, now, young sir - what’s it to be? Shall I read your future in the cards - ’ she curled a hand over the pack by her elbow, well-used and not a little faded, ‘- or see it for you in your palm? You’re a handsome lad, you are. I’m sure there’s a good few lasses to be seen in your future!’ Her tone was just as flattering and insincere as Frodo had warned him it might be. 

Sam held out his hand to be read; he’d seen their Halfred do such things with cards as didn’t seem possible, and he wouldn’t put it past this old dame to know as many more tricks as she had years over his brother. 

The voice sharpened. ‘Money first, lad, I don’t read for free!’ His coin had scarcely touched the table before it was scooped up and secreted who knew where beneath the folds of the intricately-worked shawl that she wore crossed tightly over her breast. Her hands were cool and dry around Sam’s, the wrinkled fingers papery across his skin, and he wondered whether she really could See what were to come, or whether he'd wasted his hard-earned penny on an old gammer who enjoyed playing pretend at her customers' expense.

‘Hmm.’ She turned his hand this way and that, then tapped a crop of fine lines below his little finger. ‘My, there’s a family and a half - a baker's dozen at the least, by the looks of it! Best pick yourself a lass with good wide hips for bearin’ all _them_ bonny bairns!’ she said, slyly teasing, now. 

Sam blushed a little, but he weren't particularly impressed by her revelation. Generous families being more common in the Shire than not, she’d a fair chance of being right, no matter who she spun that tale to. Not that he were looking to—

‘And here's the lass herself! All fine and rosy with bright curls, and a pert little nose!’ 

She were making that up for sure, he thought - there weren't no way you could see something like that, just in a lad’s hand. 

_Were_ there? 

And any road, he much preferred noses to be elegantly straight, and as for 'rosy', he'd more a mind for creamy-pale skin with just the tiniest hint of rose to warm it to beauty… 

‘I see a journey across water for you,’ she promised next, and Sam hid a grin. Choose which way he went home, he’d be crossing The Water, so she couldn’t be faulted there. 

‘A long journey and a wide water,’ she added, as though she’d heard his doubting thought. Well, that were less likely, but happen Mr Bilbo might take him along one time when he visited Brandy Hall. Sam knew that the Brandywine River lay ‘twixt here and there, and _that_ were a deal further, and a sight wider, than any in the Shire.

Her face crumpled to a frown of concentration then, as she pulled his hand closer to the lamp, dabbing and pressing to get the light to catch and hold in the threads of his palm. She studied his face, holding his gaze for long moments; try as he might, Sam couldn't look away from the dark scrutiny that seemed to probe right to the heart of him. Her eyes released him at last, and he felt almost dizzy as she traced a cool, slow line from wrist to fingers. ‘There’s a long life writ here. A long life, a long dark, and a longer love,’ she said. Her voice rippled uncertainly and Sam shivered, though the air was stifling now. ‘I can’t see an end to it…’

She dropped his hand and her tone sharpened once more. ‘Best hope it’s for that same lass, or you’ll be heart-cold through many a year, lad! Off with you, I’ve no more to tell.’

Sam thanked her and rose to leave. She muttered something he didn’t quite catch but glared at him when he paused, thinking she might yet have more to say. He leapt rapidly down the steps, shaking off the thick heaviness that had settled on his mind, glad to be out in the air once more.

Frodo was waiting close by, leaning on the nearest stall, to the annoyance of the holder, who looked as though any excuse to be rid of him couldn’t be soon enough. 

‘Well, what did she say?’ he demanded in a cautiously audible whisper. ‘Was it worth it?’

‘Not sure, sir, not till it happens – or doesn’t! She might be right, but then again, she may well say the same to everyone. You take your turn, Mr Frodo, and maybe we'll find out.’ Whatever else might be wheedled out of him, Sam weren't about to confess to the long dark nor to the longer – endless - love. Not unless she said something of the same to Frodo. Though even that need not mean…

Frodo grinned and mounted lightly up to the door, tapping and then disappearing within. Sam made to lean where his master had stood, but the stall-holder had had enough, and cleared his throat fiercely. A gentlehobbit cluttering up your space were obviously one thing, his servant quite another. Sam smiled an apology and moved to find another perch, but he seemed scarcely to have settled himself, pondering what he might say should Frodo reveal a similar destiny, than the half door to the caravan opened and the crone looked out. 

‘Here, you!’ she called urgently, her voice thin and anxious now where it had been so assured. ‘You’d best come take this one.’

‘What?’ Sam was up alongside her almost before she’d finished speaking, pushing past her in his haste. 

The thick sweetness had gone, and now the air caught acrid in his chest. Frodo sat at the table, hands curled empty on the plush before him, his face as blank and bewildered as any hobbit Sam had seen with three or four good ales inside him; it were nobbut getting on for teatime yet, though, and Frodo had drunk naught to confuse him so. He didn’t look as if he might be going to be sick, neither, like after he'd come off the Joywheel - just far off and _otherly_ , somehow. 

‘Mr Frodo? Sir?’ He rounded on the old hobbit dame. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘What have _I_ done? Nothing. No-one need do this to him for he will take it to himself.’ 

She sounded _otherly_ too, Sam thought, though exactly what he meant by that, he couldn’t have put words to, and he'd more important matters to see to now. ‘Mr Frodo? Sir? Mr Frodo, sir!’ Not knowing quite what else to do, Sam took his hand awkwardly, and patted it. ‘Frodo, please? _Frodo!_ ’

Frodo gave a little start, and gripped Sam’s hand tightly; he moved his head to look carefully all around, and for a moment he bore the puzzled expression of a small child who falls asleep on a journey and wakes to find himself in a strange new place.

‘Are you his friend?’ Mrs Lee had come back to the table and what she sounded now was old and tired, and more than a little shaken. 

Her question held more than the words, Sam knew, and he wished with all his being that he might say yes and have it for truth. ‘His gardener,’ he said, shortly. 

She looked from Sam to Frodo and back, and stretched out a hand to each at once. Sam had a sudden glimpse of a coppered sky, where the whoosh of wind tore at his ears, and hot ash rasped in his throat. She lifted her hands as if scalded, and the copper dissolved to a fragrant shimmer of silver and green, then faded completely before the warm glow of a small fire behind its bars and the spill of yellow light from a lamp of brass, hanging above Sam’s head.

'Nay, lad.' Her voice seemed very distant. ‘You’d best tend him, first. He’ll need it.’ 

Sam was shaken himself now, and if he opened his mouth it'd be to snap at her that of course he would tend to him, he always did, didn’t he, it were his job. And besides that—but he knew it'd be the worry talking, and bit his lip on it.

With Frodo clinging to him like a sleepwalker, it wasn’t easy getting them both down the steps safely, but Sam managed it somehow. He guided him carefully behind the wagons to an empty one, resting him on the footboard. ‘Here, set yourself down, sir. Shall I fetch you some water?’

‘No, Sam, thank you. I feel a little better, just from being outside.’ 

It were true that his face seemed less— _pinched_ were the only word Sam could lay sense to; and certainly he had lost the bewildered look, and his clutch of Sam’s hand seemed less for safety, now, and more for comfort, surely? _Better, maybe, but a fairish way from being right._

‘What happened, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’ Frodo closed his eyes and frowned. ‘I remember going in, and sitting down. She took my money and then my hand, then she said something, I don’t know what, and suddenly I felt empty - bereft, somehow. Everything seemed to melt away on her words, and only the sky was there, dark and burning, and I couldn't move, I couldn’t breathe.’ He took deep breaths now, as if he needed to make up those he'd missed.

‘I ‘spect it were just too hot in there, sir - I felt a bit funny, meself.’ Least said the better about that sudden—no, it hadn't happened. Just his imagination running off with him through his worry over Frodo. _Weren't_ it?

‘I don’t know - perhaps. But I’m much better, now, Sam, really I am. It must have been that smell, whatever it was - I remember how sweet and cloying it seemed at first, but then…’ His eyes, when he opened them, were thoughtful. He shook his head. ‘Nothing that a good cup of tea won’t cure, I expect!’

He looked down, and Sam realised at the same moment that their hands were still joined. He blushed and made to let go, but Frodo stopped him.

‘I—I think I should still like to hold onto you, Sam, please? If you wouldn’t mind - just for a while, ’til I feel steady again?’

_For a while? For a lifetime, sir, if you need me._ Here was his long and endless love, Sam knew it, rosy lass and bonny bairns notwithstanding. His heart would lie with Frodo always, though his body must ache forever for the touch he'd never know.

‘No, sir,’ he managed. ‘I don’t mind at all.’

Arm in arm, they made their way to the refreshment tent. By the time that they were well into their first cups of tea, enjoying no-nonsense sandwiches and looking forward to generous slices of the carrot cake with a creamy sweet curd icing, Frodo could laugh at himself for having come away without his paid-for reading. 

The laughter didn't take him as far as threatening to return to claim it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Wonderful illustration by Notabluemaia!
> 
> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  I admit to having transferred the [knitting](http://www.manorhouse.clara.net/knitwear/history.htm) tradition shamelessly - though with great respect for each skilled calling that we used to have - from the fisher- to the shepherd-folk. The reason for the exchange must be obvious in a land-locked Shire with hobbits suspicious of water in quantity; the reason for doing it at all simply that it was fun to imagine, and GAFFS _is_ , after all, AU!  
> Remember that a jumper/Guernsey/gansey in England may be a sweater - or even a Jersey! - elsewhere; the [ Channel Islands](http://www.visitchannelislands.com/) were granted special [wool dispensations](http://web.archive.org/web/20090223162343/http://www.guernseyknitwear.co.uk/story.htm) long years ago, hence the transferral of the Island names to the garments (/didacticism - researcher-obsessionism is so easily fed by the Internet - sorry!) 
> 
> I didn’t want to write the second half of this, as I don’t usually believe it when I read. But I couldn’t have a Show and Travellers without someone like Mrs Lee. Sam took the thought from me and made of it what he would; she is both less and more than our combined understanding of her art  
> Her van looked something like [this](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/mrslee.jpg)  
> Scroll down a little for the [ baker’s dozen](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dozen)


	9. Show Day the First – Late Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an uneasy belief appears confirmed, successes are awarded, and Sam is rightly suspicious of sudden popularity
> 
> Rating: you guessed?

When Frodo grew quiet once more, Sam looked up in some alarm, fearing a return of whatever Mrs Lee had Seen that had hurt him. He realised at once that Frodo’s attention was completely elsewhere – fixed, it seemed, away over Sam’s left shoulder. He stretched and turned casually, so that he could follow the direction of Frodo’s gaze, without it being too obvious what he were about. The huge marquee (of necessity almost as big as the Produce and Handicrafts tent) was steadily filling with hobbits, all intent on obtaining a somewhat early tea in order to fortify themselves against the judges’ verdicts being revealed. 

Sam knew exactly who had engaged Frodo’s notice, though. 

Betony Meridew was seated at one of the tables near the door, smiling serenely and without any trace of seductiveness about her whatever; she had eyes only for the hobbit babe bouncing happily in her lap. Sam couldn’t claim to be an expert in these matters (though he’d noticed such things – few hobbits not bearing the name of Baggins could hope to escape all such squalling acquaintance) but from what he could tell, Betony’s motherly instincts were particularly strong; indeed, they seemed to be most effective, if such contented gurgles were any indication.

Even in that snatched glance, he could see Betony’s joy in the child shine in her face. It seemed clear to him now that her flirtatious ways were designed - whether she knew it or not - to bring her a mate who would give her babes of her own to love. It weren’t just what sort of husband you might make one day that Miss Betony were weighing you up for, he thought. It were what kind of dad you’d make. 

Sam looked down quickly. He had realised three things. 

The first, that Betony Meridew was a far more attractive hobbit, when she left her artful wiles behind and became wholly herself. Without the coyly come-hither look and the arch sideways glance from beneath her lashes, she seemed younger, prettier and altogether more agreeable. He thought it would be a kindness in someone to tell her so, and thus help her to her goal at last (at t’other end of the Shire, were Sam given a say in the matter).

The second, that this was the only lass here at the Show to whom he had seen Frodo pay such close attention. It looked as if Frodo, too, had seen right through all that outward show, and found within a hobbit worth the knowing - and very probably more. This _must_ be the lass Frodo had so wanted to be at the Show to see. Betony Meridew for whom he had been waiting. Betony Meridew with whom he was smitten. He’d talked – _walked_ – with her earlier, hadn’t he? No flirting then, neither. 

_But— ut Frodo came back to_ me. _To honour his promise to share the Ride? Probably. But then—then he_ stopped _along of me, he didn't follow her wherever she'd gone. Why didn’t he—? Well, maybe she’d promised to be elsewhere for a while? But wouldn’t he rather’ve—?_ Sam felt his mind begin to slip into a mire of questions that had no proper answers, and decided to give up on the wherefores for the time being.

The third and most insistent thing was that he could not blame Frodo for his intent and serious scrutiny. No hobbit owing a duty – _his_ more so than most - to wed and start a family of his own, could fail to be impressed when the maid that he’d already an eye to, proved she would fulfil such a role to perfection. Betony and her borrowed babe made as pretty a picture as anyone might wish to see - except that Sam had to bow his head to hide the sudden prickling in his eyes.

_All them things Rosie and our lasses were saying about her!_ Sam knew he should feel embarrassed over what had passed, but for now the hurt was too strong for any other feeling to get a look in. _Oh, and the rose!_ Small wonder Frodo had seemed less than happy with the idea that Betony should be wearing a rose of Sam’s providing - it must have looked as though Sam were a’wooing of her! It’d not been so much that Frodo had worried about losing his gardener to the Meridews at all, but about possibly losing his chosen Meridew to the gardener! 

_You and your big head, Sam Gamgee! Mr Frodo weren’t thinking about_ you _much at all, only about_ her _. But he must have known she were only having a flirt with me, surely? There’s many a lass takes advantage of the freedom the Show offers - it needn’t mean a thing!_ Maybe, though, even a bit of flirting would seemelike a threat, though, to a hobbit deep in love? 

_It hurt_ you _, just 'cause Frodo_ walked _along of her!_ he reminded himself sternly. 

Sam wondered if he ought to say something by way of apology, though he couldn’t think what, and on second thoughts, least said might well be soonest mended. But he resolved at once to make himself scarce, right quick, just as soon as they got up from here. Frodo must be getting completely fed up of the gardener underfoot all the time, when he might be squiring Miss Betony around the Showground. 

_Oh! And what Frodo said, about Mr Bilbo thinking to let bygones be bygones with Mr Meridew?_ That must be why Frodo had had to wait: for their elders to heal the rift between them so that they might seal the reconciliation with a kiss (amongst other things about which Sam would rather not know, but couldn’t help dwelling upon). And if he were feeling this bad now, what would their wedding night be like? Sam foresaw a lot of ale, drunk in private lest he confess to things he _really_ shouldn’t on so happy an occasion. And likely that’d be when his _long dark_ , as promised by the Traveller, would begin.

He’d to concentrate now, to finish his slice of cake - even sweet curd icing entirely lost its charm when you’d only heartache in prospect - all the while pretending not to notice Frodo’s preoccupation elsewhere. As soon as Betony left, Sam knew it, for Frodo’s attention snapped back to him; the serious expression disappeared, and his words proved him to have given his mind over, for whatever reason, to what _they_ might do next. 

‘Sorry, I was miles away, Sam!’ he said, quite cheerfully and not at all as if he were regretting Sam’s presence. ‘The bell should be ringing shortly - I wonder how we’ve fared? I really hope your rose gets the recognition it deserves – a big red rosette if nothing else, but _I_ expect you to get a Special as well!’

‘Well, it’s nice of you to say so, sir, but I’m not expecting any such thing.’ He’d been _expecting_ Frodo to leave here with Betony, but—

‘Of course you will, Sam!’ Frodo began to collect together their empty plates and cups. ‘A rose as rare, as beautiful and as perfectly grown as yours is _bound_ to win a Special – it’s the perfect specimen!’

‘I didn’t enter in the specimen class, sir,’ Sam confessed, as he made space on the tea tray.

Frodo paused in the setting down of dishes, and looked his question.

‘I put it in as a corsage.’

‘Sam, you never said!’

‘No, I—I wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Well, then - what does it look like?’

‘It’s just three of the roses, nice plump buds – ’cept the middle one, that’s open a bit - and there’s a few cornflowers and spray or two of baby’s breath to set them off.’ He could see Frodo forming a picture of it in his mind.

‘ _Just?_ Sam, it sounds beautiful!’

‘Well, I have to say it doesn’t look too bad,’ Sam admitted bashfully.

‘We shall make a point of going there first,’ Frodo promised, getting up to whisk the tray from under Sam’s hands and deliver it to the hobbit washers-up. The job was not as unpopular as might have been supposed. Most impoverished teens and many tweens were actually eager to take a turn, timely largesse of spare cake and pop being as much incentive as the pence (which were, of course, spent almost as soon as paid over).

They were almost at the doorway when the bell clanged out loudly over the Show-field once more, this time challenging all Jam and Ingenuity competitors to come and see what success they may have achieved. Frodo's attention seemed all on that, but Sam glanced aside to where Betony had sat with her borrowed babe. 

There, half-trampled into the flattened grass beneath the table, lay a careless scatter of crimson-black petals. The child had obviously enjoyed pulling his rose to pieces.

As they neared the Produce tent, the lines of hobbits already queuing to enter grew longer by the minute. Anxious looks passed to and fro, and the hum of conversation was somewhat dimmed by trepidation; it must be catching, too, for Sam could feel his own level of nervousness rising. Suddenly, Frodo recoiled. ‘Sam!’ he hissed. 

Sam was instantly attuned to the note of alarm in his voice, and lowered his own to a whisper. ‘Mr Frodo?’

‘It’s Great Aunt Hope!’ Sadly, the unusually gawky figure, recognisable from afar by that and by its widow’s weeds, was indeed Frodo’s Great Aunt Hope. Even more sadly, their whispers could not grant him the ability to avoid her, for her eyesight was at least as good as that of any hobbit having half her years. She had seen him, too, was motioning with her umbrella in his direction and approaching at a surprisingly smart pace, with the Underwoods in tow. Sam noticed Roddy’s smirk at once.

Frodo sighed, admitting defeat. ‘I'll go alone, Sam - you carry on and see how we have done. There’s no reason _your_ ears should burn too!’ Along with her lugubrious attitude to life and everything in it, Hope Egerton was known to have an uncanny facility for asking quite the most embarrassing of questions in quite the most piercing of tones. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I can. And I shall find a way to wipe that smile from Roderic Underwood’s face, you see if I don’t!’

He stepped forward to meet his ordeal, quite obviously squaring his shoulders and taking deep breaths against it, and Sam let himself be carried along in the jostle of exhibitors all pressing forward eagerly to discover whether their efforts had been crowned with the success for which they hoped. 

There were large entries in every class, standards were very high, and to win a GAFFS rosette of any colour was considered the highest accolade a crafter could receive on his or her work. A red rosette could be the dream of many, but became reality for only a few, and they the exceptionally skilled. Even a plain white card bearing the word _Commended_ , with no rosette in sight, was well worth the having, and something of which any hobbit could be really proud. And at last, for each and every entrant, the moment of truth had arrived.

As doorways were unlaced and the crowd spilled in, their noses were assailed by powerful odours on every side. The secrecy required for judging had kept the tent closed up though the heat of the day, and the musty smell of canvas and the fragrance of crushed grass were overlaid now by many mingled scents. In the horticulture section, they rose headily fragrant or fresh and earthy; they floated spicy-yeasty from the bakery tables; pungent of vinegar here, honey-sweet there, sharply milky along by the cheeses; and heavily redolent of wine where the tasters had happen sampled a few too many and spilled a little now and again (there was good reason for the wines, liqueurs and meads to be judged the last of all). These small puddles soaked stealthily through the tables’ paper-coverings, dispersing far and wide the giddy savour of fermented fruits. 

With the crowding in of so many warm and hopeful bodies, other aromas were added now, in perfumes by the score; each bouquet - flowery, woodsy or musky to varying degrees – carried a base note that was simply the smell of honest sweat, from hobbits who had spent a busy and enjoyable day beneath hot sunshine. Small wonder that a cry went up for the tent sides to be unhooked and let down once more.

The press swarmed tighter than in the morning, as Sam made his way first to the arts section to find out what Frodo may have won. Immediately, he blushed to realise that _his_ shadow portrait - fancy getup and all - had taken a first prize for its maker; it obviously _had_ been worth feeling awkward to see himself so nattily togged up! Rather than just imagining them onto the paper, Frodo had made him actually _wear_ the fancy lace cravat and whatnot, and had taken great pains to direct Sam’s hair into the casually windblown style which was all the rage amongst those who wished to cut a fashionable figure with the lasses. Sam’s self-control had been sorely tried when Frodo’s own hands had set the finishing touches to his model, and there had been a rapid and unscheduled visit to the privy, just as soon as the blissful ordeal was over. 

But the elegant tobacco jar had been unaccountably overlooked in the rosettes, although it bore a card with the words _Highly Commended_. Sam knew at once that somebody with a bigger mouth than he ought to have must have let on that the writing were elvish. Stood to reason - otherwise there weren’t no way this other stuff should have beaten Frodo’s, for it were neither as well made nor as beautiful, not by a long chalk it weren’t (not that Sam were biased or aught).

However, he couldn’t be too dissatisfied on Frodo’s behalf, for he had received a second _Highly Commended_ for the watercolour sketch Sam admired so much for its misting of autumn colour, and a bright yellow third rosette was attached to the other. This one portrayed the hay harvest at Hobbiton in telling detail, from the contrast of the local lads’ drab work clothes with the brightly attired Travelling labourers, to the barn cat a-crouch for fieldmice driven out by the swish of the scythe.

His own entry in the crafts section had come a satisfying second; he was neither surprised nor disappointed not to have won, and more than happy to receive the blue rosette, for more reasons than one. He had known as soon as he set eyes on the intricate rattle – a ball within a delicately latticed cage, and all from a single piece of wood - that nothing would beat it. For all that it wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in the hands of any hobbit faunt with leanings toward rhythm, it was an exquisite piece of work, and Sam’s admiration was whole-hearted. 

There couldn’t have been a greater contrast, he thought as he eyed the two pieces - for by chance they were numbered 8 and 9 in their class, and so lay side by side on the crowded table. The winner told much of skill and of artistry in the use of fine tools; its labyrinthine complexity must have taken from its maker many months of dedication. Sam was both pleased and grateful that the judges had seen in his own work, not just the simple fact that it was as starkly plain as the other was decorative, but that he had actually captured the sinuous curve of the spine, the taut spring of muscle, the sharp angle of the head that declared infinite watchfulness – the essence of poised vigilance. His carving might be a lot closer to the natural branch than were most of the exhibits to their base wood, but Sam was still proud of the dog otter he had coaxed from its hiding within the bundle of dead and fallen boughs, collected after a particularly rapacious storm last Rethe.

He made his way along the crowded aisles of the Junior section and was immensely pleased when the first success that really registered was the sight of Marigold’s pampered pet geranium sporting a rosette as red as its own flowers. 

Mari arrived practically on his heels. ‘Oh, Sam – _look!_ ’ she said - and putting up her hands to her face, she promptly burst into tears.

‘Here, now, what’s all this?’ he said, giving her a hug. ‘You’re supposed to be pleased, not cry about it!’ And then she was laughing and crying and choking all at once, and she hugged him back fiercely. 

He could well imagine how much the success must mean to her. It would have been so easy to allow her father, a renowned gardener, or the brother who was following so closely in his footsteps, to take over the care of a plant which would then have been hers in name only. But Mari had expressly forbidden either of them ever to lay so much as a finger to its leaves. She had nursed this plant from a cutting given her by Lily Cotton (who had a fairish hand with pot plants herself) to its present state of magnificence, and she deserved every scrap of praise and recognition that came her way.

‘Happen,’ she snuffled, getting out a handkerchief to mop away the tears, but wearing the biggest smile Sam had ever seen on her, ‘happen this gardening lark might be in the blood after all! But I’d watch out, if I were you, Sam. Dad took firsts with his beans and the Whitedrops, but whatever you do, don’t ask about the strawberries. He’s not best pleased to have come second to Arbac Denton!’

Sam sucked in a laughing breath and promised to stay out of Gaffer’s way until the smart should have time to wear off. Ham and Arbac were old rivals in a mostly friendly way, but that wouldn’t stop Gaffer’s disappointed pride from delivering a tongue-wigging to anyone who crossed him for a while. Though mayhap the visit of his brother would sweeten him up a little this year?

Sam turned, wishful now to get along to the Senior section, to see how he may have fared, but suddenly here was Rosie Cotton with a big smile of her own for the _Commended_ card on her entry. Her geranium might have been thought identical to Marigold’s, coming from the same stock as it did, but a judicious eye (setting aside that Mari was his sister) must note which plant was the finer of the two. In addition to the generous flare of colour already showing, Marigold’s bore the promise of many more stalks capped with umbels of tightly-rolled buds to come, and the leaves had a proud and haughty look to them, as if they knew their own worth. Which was not to say that Rosie’s weren’t a very creditable effort, and Sam was honest in his congratulation, if less effusive than she might have liked, as he escaped at last to face his own moment of truth.

His route was slightly circuitous due to a prudent diversion past the soft fruits classes (better safe than sorry), but the pleasure-dread of anticipation was soon taken from him, and he knew that his corsage had won - and not only its class - long before he actually got there. He knew, by the number of greetings and congratulations from fellow gardeners of the Shire, all commenting on the beauty and rarity of his new rose, and on his success. He found himself hurrying the more, as if it couldn't really be true until he'd seen it for himself. But as he threaded a carefully hasty way through the thickening crowd, he was quite unprepared for the number of hobbit lasses who stopped him, seeming suddenly to have acquired an interest in horticulture, all of them bestowing a smile and an often fulsome word of praise upon him.

A way was made for him - which also seemed to involve a deal of back-slapping - through the crush that had gathered, it seemed, just to see this new and unusual rose whose fame had spread so quickly. Sam knew a rushing glow of pride to see his entry bear both the red rosette and a multi-coloured Special besides, and he read with a blush of pleasure his scores for _Excellence of plant material_ (10), _Choice of bloom_ (10) and _Artistry_ (10) - the perfect score. It was whilst he was so doing that his fellow exhibitors saw fit to advise him of the tradition - apparently set in stone - that the winning corsage should be presented to the hobbit of the owner's choice, to be worn at the Final Cup Presentation Ceremony, Feast and Celebration Ball, on the last evening of the show.

_Well, now, and that_ would _go a fair way to explaining these lasses with their bright smiles, wouldn’t it?_ Several of them he didn't even know by name, though the lass whose little brother he had caught and returned had been one of them. Most, though, were local lasses he'd grown with, played with, tussled and even cuddled with; some the pleasantly instructive ones who had offered rather more than that to an inquisitive teen.

Sam was suddenly very aware that presenting such a thing to _any_ lass would be tantamount to a standing invitation to walk out with him - the very last thing he could want. It was definitely not a lass he'd had in mind when fashioning it, for no lass could do it justice and that were that. It had been made to grace – even if only in Sam’s imagination - the breast of the hobbit Sam knew to be the most beautiful at the Show, and _he_ were definitely not a lass. Presenting it to Frodo to wear, though - with all the implications Sam realised now that it would carry - well, that would take courage, that would. Likely far more than he possessed.

‘Does it have a name yet, your beautiful rose?’ 

Betony Meridew again, and Sam were right flummoxed as to how to talk to her. It seemed to him that she’d a dangerous light in her eye once more - the uncharitable would probably have said _outrageous_ \- but he felt he must give her the benefit of the doubt, for Frodo’s sake.

‘Not yet, miss,’ he mumbled, knowing full well that he weren’t going to tell this lass, above any, of his hopes. He was also uncomfortably awake to the ear-wigging of hobbits all around them; any announcement as to naming should be made in the proper quarters before any others got to hear of it.

Betony’s thick fringe of lashes swept artfully down. ‘You can’t decide who to name it for?’ She asked. Her voice held the familiar singsong, but Sam weren’t about to be inveigled a second time.

‘I just need permission from the one it’s to be named for, that’s all, miss.’

‘Betony, _please_ , Sam!’ She stood there waiting, as though she had every expectation…and Sam had a sudden, dreadful thought.

If Frodo were smitten with her, would it not be a fine compliment to his chosen one, to name it _Betony’s Rose_?

To name it after the one who would supplant him in Frodo’s life, even if Sam only mattered as the hobbit at Bag End nearest him in age, for whom Frodo might wander out to offer a cup of tea or a listen to the latest bit of whatever he were working on? To name it for _her_ , instead of for the one who had been the fixed point to which Sam drew - constant and most important in his life since he couldn’t remember when? The one with whom he had been wont to share everything from the misery of his mam’s death to the unlooked-for joy of a snowfall actually deep enough for sledging; from the profound discomfort that came of injudiciously disturbing a bees’ nest, to appreciation of the tightly woven cup of twigs, down and grasses, with its jostle of hungry mouths that meant Sam must make do with just one watering can – no matter how dry the weather - until Mrs Redbreast had finished with the other?

Aye, well, it might be a fine compliment, but he couldn’t do it. 

Perhaps in years to come, when his mind and body had accepted the fact of a Mistress at Bag End (and a lass in Frodo’s bed) he might be moved to make such a gesture. But into the nurturing of this rose he had woven his most secret and impractical dreams of Frodo - warm and laughing, his skin soft and lily-pale beneath a coverlet of darkly fragrant petals… 

No. His love and longing were twined through all the days of its making, and he simply could not give that to Betony Meridew. Not when she would take his Frodo too. There was nothing he would not give Frodo if he asked – but Frodo was not asking this and Sam could not do it.

‘I have to speak to Mr Baggins before I can announce it. Now that it’s proved itself worthy, I will.’ She could go hang for which Mr Baggins she thought he meant. And it weren’t being called _Mr Baggins’s Rose_ neither, he thought, defiantly. He made up his mind that he could do this. He would ask permission to call it _Frodo’s Rose_ , and let it stand last testament to his hopeless love.

There was a noticeable stir in the press of hobbits around them then, and a unmistakeable thinning out as the elder of those Bagginses bustled up to where Sam stood. To his sudden and heartfelt relief, Betony Meridew melted back into the crowd without another word.

‘Congratulations Sam! I hear you’ve been causing quite a stir in the world of horticulture?’

‘Thank you, Mr Bilbo, sir. People do seem to rather like the rose, and it’s all due to you letting me grow on that sport for myself – so thank _you_ , sir.’

‘I did nothing Sam, other than encourage you to do what you do best. Oh, yes, indeed!’ Bilbo said, regarding the corsage closely. ‘Very, very nice. I could not take a part, of course, but I thought that the judges were, if anything, rather restrained in their appreciation of what you have created here, Sam.’

Sam blushed anew – how could there be further accolade than what he had already received?

‘The Best in Show Cup has yet to be decided for the horticulture section,’ Bilbo informed him. ‘There is some difference of opinion between those who prefer the beauty offered in the floral classes and those who consider first the practicality and usefulness of fruit and vegetables. They have until the ceremony to argue it out amongst themselves, but I know where _I_ would bestow the trophy!’ 

‘Th-thank you, sir!' Sam stuttered, a little overwhelmed that Mr Bilbo thought his entry to be _that_ good. 'And Mr Frodo got a nice few awards, too, sir. Have you seen?’ He was beginning to feel uncomfortable with all the praise he was getting, and not a little jealous for Frodo’s successes to be recognised too.

‘Yes, indeed, Sam. I’m _very_ proud of him! Gaffer and your sisters have more than an odd one between them, too?’ 

‘Aye, sir – though the less said about strawberries, for a day or two, the better, if you understand me, sir!’ The ranks of those eager to admire Sam’s rose had thinned a little, but a knowing titter rippled through the remaining listeners.

‘Yes, I met Daisy and she did happen to mention it,’ Bilbo said with a twinkle. ‘I, too, shall step very carefully around the Gaffer and his disappointment for a while!’

_As if Gaffer’d ever take out his ill-humour on Mr Bilbo!_ Still, it were nice of the Master to enter into Sam’s feelings on the subject.

‘Sam!’ Frodo arrived at a rush, slithering easily through the crowd. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam - it’s taken me this long to break free—Oh!’ His haste completely stilled, he simply looked at the corsage for what seemed to Sam like an age. Then he said quietly, ‘I think that is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.’

Sam knew he were wrong, but of course he couldn’t say so, for Frodo would ask what were better and Sam’d get so flustered he might blurt out _any_ thing, right then and there. Wisely, he directed his brilliantly red face toward his toes as he muttered his thanks and offered congratulations of his own. The awed admiration in Frodo’s voice were doing such things to him as it were; he’d dread to think what might not happen if he actually _saw_ the approval and delight he thought he could hear.

‘Yes, well,’ Bilbo suddenly said, briskly and rather more rather loudly than might be thought needful. ‘I’d like Beechnut brought round, please, Sam. I asked Daisy to let Gaffer and your uncle know that I shall be leaving shortly, but you could give them a nod if you see them. And Frodo, would you be so kind as to rescue yesterday’s picnic basket from wherever it is, please? I’m very much afraid that in this weather, if it’s not emptied soon, it may walk back to Bag End on its own!’

Unavoidable guilt immediately swamped whatever else Sam might be feeling. ‘There weren’t actually that much left of the lunch, sir – it were too good to waste any. But I should have thought to empty the remnants and fetch it back, myself. I’m sorry, sir.’ 

‘Nonsense, Sam – busy time, lots going on – perfectly understandable!’ Bilbo said bracingly. ‘Off you go then, lad. After a success like this, you'll be stopped a few times along the way if I'm any judge!' He smiled at his own little joke, but from his tone, Sam thought he'd best be on his way at once.

He gave a quick smile to Frodo, who was looking rather cross now for some reason, and turned for the nearest exit. Behind him, he heard, ‘Bilbo, was that really-’ and, ‘Not _now_ , Frodo!’ and wondered what that might be about. The exchange was soon lost, however, in the continuing greeting and congratulation as he met more friends and fellow gardeners and swapped news of success and of near misses with them. Mr Bilbo had been right to send him off when he did, the time it took him to escape into out the air once more. He took a few deep, fresh breaths; it were funny, but you never really realised just how close it were in there – tent sides down or no – till you got out again.

Outside, the Showground had begun to seem rather empty, though there were still folks about who hadn’t a stake in anything won or lost in the Produce tent. Sam was not the only one wending a way to where the gigs and carts and pony traps were waiting to be reclaimed. For the many hobbits who had visited today, it was time to think of returning home, the further, the sooner - though for some there would be a repeat trip on the morrow to which they might look forward. The stalls and Rides were officially open until the final bell rang out at six o’clock, but the day always began to wind to its close with the pleasures, compliments and petty jealousies of the results becoming known; also, with not a little indulgence in the time-honoured sport of casting delicate aspersions on the eyesight, wisdom and integrity of the judges.

There was soon a steady flow of wheeled, pony and foot traffic departing through the gates as the field began to empty of day visitors. With the prospect of a clear night and a full moon, though, not a few were tempted to remain for the Challenge. It might be arranged by and for those hobbits who were here for the entire span of the Show, but only time and travel distance barred any hobbit with a mind thereto from staking a place in the evening’s entertainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  Mrs Redbreast is, of course, the [English robin](http://www.commanster.eu/commanster/Vertebrates/Birds/WBirds/Erithacus.rubecula.jpg); Erithacus rubecula, not the American variety, Turdus migratorius /very amateur twitcher **A/N** to the **A/N** : Google Bill Oddie + twitcher if you now believe that I dabble in sudden involuntary or spasmodic muscular movements...  
> For any UK reader who might just have wondered: yes, 'Jam and Ingenuity' _is_ a tiny tip of the hat to the [WI](http://www.thefword.org.uk/features/2002/07/more_than_just_jam_and_jerusalem_why_we_should_join_the_womens_institute)


	10. Show Day the First - Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which are supper, skittles, a modicum of ale and some misunderstandings
> 
> Rating: *invites you to guess*

There was a definite air of good-natured impatience in the final farewells to the latest and slowest to leave of the carts and wagons. Though the main business of GAFFS was done for the day and it was again possible to see clear across the Showground, hobbits still scurried hither and yon, singly or in small groups. The bustle of activity might be a good deal quieter and thinner but it was none the less intent, for there were many tasks yet to be completed before the enjoyment to come. And it was an unwritten rule that any who remained should help where they could, so that every hobbit might gain as much from this evening as possible.

The sides were hooked back into place on the Produce tent once more, to keep out the falling dew. Along the aisles that encircled the main ring, booths were tidied and closed up in double quick time, stalls shuttered, and goods on the ground neatly stacked and covered. The precious Rides were checked for wear and tear, oil or polish applied lovingly as and where needed (even the odd, 'necessary' touch up of paint by one or two of the truly obsessive). And in the stock lines, husbandry went on apace. 

Only the morning’s greenery was provided by GAFFS; owners must bring from home the hard feed and hay their animals would also need. Bales of bright yellow straw were opened, beds forked through and replenished, and there was an echoing clatter of buckets all across the field: milking buckets as required for goats and cattle, buckets for feeding corn to every type of stock, and water buckets everywhere in need of filling - an easy job to allot to any unskilled hobbit offering assistance. The re-stuffing of hay nets was another safe and pleasant task to request of the inexperienced, the year’s green-gold hay almost fragrant enough to eat yourself, when supper was a while off yet. 

Short-lived slurping sounds came from the goat pens, as waggle-tailed kids disposed rapidly of bottles offered them by one hobbit, whilst another took milk from the dam’s udder to be weighed and taken into account in her competition placing. The pigs squealed anticipation as they caught the warm, sweet scent of the frothy largesse, always plentiful and mostly theirs since butter and cheese could scarcely be made at the Show. And at one point there appeared to be an invasion of walking trees (or maybe large bushes) of ash and hazel and willow, from the direction of Burnham Spinney, leaves all swishing energetically to the pace of their advance. But before those unacquainted with the phenomenon could become alarmed, they revealed themselves to be goatkeepers, armed only with the pruning implements they’d used in foraging greenery to delight their charges and increase the milk yields.

Hobbit youngsters, too, must be washed and fed and put to bed, tousled already by sleep after a day packed with more excitement even than Yuletide. The teens, though, were all a-simmer with eagerness (and hunger), for on this evening they were permitted to take part in the games alongside their elders, and bedtime tonight was dictated by the level of their success and their adherence to an honour system (which, for the most part, worked right well). To date, none had ever progressed even so far as the quarter-finals, though Sam had come close once or twice in the past couple of years. Nerves and over-eagerness usually put paid to such hopes but a lad with a run of luck on him could still take with him to his blankets an undeniable feeling of achievement - even of superiority - until the whispered tease of his friends brought him down to earth once more.

On this second Show night, the nature both of the meal and of the entertainment were bound by a tradition so old, it might have arisen about the same time the Three Farthing Stone first sank into its hardset. The morning’s catch of rabbits and haul of mushrooms had been taken up by whichever hobbits wished to have their culinary skills appreciated, and transformed into a savoury stew in a vast and seemingly bottomless cauldron, kept solely for the purpose. It was served with bread from the baking classes judged that morning; the loaves might have dried a little from being cut open for the tasting (and some were undoubtedly baked more competently than others; all of the prize-winning bread, of course, remained on display) but they made generous provision, and with a goodly gravy to be sopped up no-one ever complained. A bowlful of stew would stick to the ribs like naught else, and might have been designed to be eaten on the fly - a matter of import, being that a hobbit must eat in the time between turns for tonight saw the excitement of The Grand Ninepins All-comers Challenge.

Ninepins was the most favoured of all the many inn games of the Shire, and every public house of note possessed its alley, alongside the common-room. There were teams and leagues and trophies to play for, and the skilled player was a respected hobbit indeed. But skittling on grass, when you’d no chance to practise and see how the lay of the land affected the curl of the ball, was a very different game from skittles played regular at an inn, where the alley was smooth as the skin on a hobbit faunt’s bottom. Here, the expertise of the player must counter the chance of the lane on which he played, and on untried ground - though cut and rolled as low as might be - any hobbit might win if the luck ran with him or her. A beginner with any sort of feel for the game could play the old hand with at least the hope of victory, and the GAFFS Champion Skittler was not always a champion of the alley at his or her local inn. 

Four lanes were marked out, each with ample room for onlookers between, and for lanterns to dangle from poles as the night drew down; they were carefully spaced to give no lane nor any competitor an unfair advantage. Playing was more fun than watching, choose how, and there needed to be a rapid turnover of short games to make sure everyone enjoyed a fair night of bowling before the finalists emerged, for every hobbit with a mind to play might enter and take a full part in the first, knockout rounds. The only rule was that you’d to be sure you could stay to the end, should the luck run your way, so as not to upset the carefully devised order of the night. For day visitors to the Show, this might well mean a moonlit return to home or lodgings, though the optimistic came prepared to sleep in their carts if they had them, someone else’s or the sleeping tent, if they had not. 

The seemingly unfathomable complexities of organising The Challenge – the tallying of hobbits and turns and opponents and lane switches and points scored and all – fell each year to Arbac Denton. Gaffer’s fruit-growing rival had more skills to his name than the production of Gamgee-galling strawberries. His was the ability to take all these dozens of disparate elements, juggle them around his head for a short while, and bring them out again in an ordered timetable, neatly labelled and with never an error; and he managed it in little more time than it took Sam to plan a five year rotation of the vegetable garden. It was a gift (though he'd a poor hand at skittles). 

Sam ended his game with a flourish, nodded thanks at the applause for his win, and turned to shake hands with the hobbit he’d beaten. He grinned at her a little bashfully, for she was Alice Cumberbirch, one of his sisters’ more accommodating friends. They had known each other extremely well in certain respects, albeit for a short time only, and she was not to be content with formality here. She flung her arms around him to bestow upon him a great smacking kiss, which brought something of a frown to the face of a hobbit hovering close by. Pol Sandbrook, so Sam understood from snatches of gossip overheard between May and Daisy, now retained exclusive rights to Miss Alice’s favours. Sam gave him the handshake instead, praising his lass's game – her _skittling_ \- in a way that (he hoped) Pol must take to be completely disinterested. Alice was quick to see the problem. She pulled her swain into an entirely different kind of kiss (which from the looks of it rendered his knees more than a trifle weak) and threw a conspiratorial wink over her shoulder at Sam as the two slipped off into the dark beyond the field of play.

They were not the only pair so to do, and Sam had been a little uneasy every time he and Frodo had been parted by the timing of their games, or whenever one of them went off to fulfil his stint at the setting up of skittles and sending back of balls. Such a mass of hobbits swirled here tonight in the shadows between lanes, supper tables and beer tent, that it were all too easy to lose track of who you’d seen and who you hadn’t and where; and he’d lost Frodo more than once. But somehow, to Sam's relief, they found each other readily enough. Frodo would appear from a seemingly faceless crowd, to take from Sam one of the mugs of ale he held in either hand, perhaps; or Sam turned to see Frodo right behind him, with a brimming bowl of stew for each of them, and half a loaf for dunking tucked awkwardly under one arm. 

Frodo had been watching Sam’s match until called away to his own, fallen due on the very left hand lane. Sam shouldered his way there through the crowd to take up a position, ale in hand, where he could best watch Frodo play. His opponent – not a hobbit Sam knew at all - were just completing his spare, and anyone with half an eye could tell he were way off, even before the ball were loosed from his hand. _Well,_ he’ll _not beat my Frodo!_ Stance and angle were all to cock for starters, and when he released, he’d not allowed for that slight curve of ground, part-way along. Sheer luck that this one had got as far as he had in the contest, and no danger here to Frodo at all. A polite ripple of applause acknowledged the effortful total of three, and a hobbit with chalk-dusted fingers added laboriously to the tally board:  
 _Claypole, N – 1-2  2-1  
Baggins,  F – 7-0_

The pins were set up once more and the ball rolled back for Frodo's second turn. He had acquitted himself well in his earlier rounds, as was only fitting for the nephew (and trainee) of a skittler of such high renown. Until his relatively recent retirement from competitive skittling (on the grounds that he probably had more years of experience thereat than had all of his opponents put together, making it rather unfair of him to play against them) the ninepin prowess of Bilbo Baggins had been feared throughout the Shire. Even in these latter days, when he played merely for the fun of it, or gave an exhibition on some noted night of celebration, it could be seen that he had not yet lost his touch. And it might indeed have been a family trait, for undeniably his nephew was a player of no small skittling skill himself in the alleys of the local inns. 

Balance and angle now were all that Sam could wish them to be, but he held his breath as the ball left Frodo’s hand. Yes, he _had_ noticed – Sam breathed again – he’d noticed that deceptive little rise and allowed for it; the ball skirted it neatly, veering in once more and striking a quarter pin with enough force for a satisfying scatter in its wake. Seven again - a tricky total to complete with the pins left like that, though, and given the waywardness of the ground, Frodo failed a second time to score. Sam shook his head regretfully, knowing that, on a proper alley, at least one pin would have fallen to his expertise and very likely both. Still, fourteen weren’t to be sneezed at, set against only six.

The Claypole lad - Nat, his supporters called him - were happen a bit more awake than Sam had given him credit for. When he took up the ball for his last go, he looked to be eyeing up the very spot he’d failed to notice before. Even as Sam was thinking to himself that Nat’s approach still hadn’t the control of a really successful player, the capricious luck for which this tournament was famous stepped in unexpectedly. Nat’s definitely loose attempt somehow skimmed straight over that awkward little rise, added momentum and certainty as it went, and ran straight and true into the Bride pin. The next second, Nat’s face bore the unmistakably awed expression of one who had rarely, if ever, achieved a strike before. Heartened by such success, his spare was almost a proficient bowl, and he’d some reason to be proud of the twenty that was his final, respectable total.

Frodo took up the ball once more, smiling at something that had obviously been said by a hobbit just to one side. Sam didn’t catch his reply, but there was a shout of laughter from those who had. Each lane had its thick fringing of spectators, almost all with an ale or steadily-emptying dish in hand, all keen to enjoy each contest. As generous with gratuitous advice as with praise for a good bowl, they were definitely not above a tease in their commiserations for the unlucky. 

For a moment, Frodo’s eyes searched the crowd, as though he knew Sam must be here by now; when they lighted upon him, he smiled again – to Sam, at least, it felt warmer and more personal than for the chaffing - and dipped his head to acknowledge the _Good luck!_ raise of Sam’s mug. Then he turned to the lane, and steadied himself, concentrating only along its length. Sam could see him cut off the rest of the world so that there should be nothing between him and the pins but the lie of the lane. There was reason for Frodo to be a fine skittler, beyond any Baggins inheritance.

His body began the movements that Sam knew must flow into a perfect pitch. But his head jerked suddenly upward, his eyes no longer on his goal but on something - someone - in the crowd. The ball dribbled forward from his hand, knocking feebly along the outline of bales, with scarce speed enough to reach to the pins, let alone knock any of them down.

Sam glanced up quickly, to find what might so have disturbed Frodo’s concentration, though he already knew – or thought he knew – _knew_ whom he would see. She had appeared quite suddenly to stand directly beneath one of the lanterns at the far end, gilded lights dancing fair and free on the satin smooth of her hair. Aye, Betony Meridew were a very pretty lass - bright and lively, if maybe a little wayward. And, though it hurt his heart to admit it, she was suitable in so many respects to be his Frodo's bride that he really shouldn’t wonder at Frodo's attachment. He managed a smile, at his own folly and at her animated, _almost_ flirtatious discussion with the group around her. Not concentrating properly on the bowling, of course, but it seemed her nature was to chaff and to flirt, and if Frodo accepted it then _he’d_ no room for carping. He could no longer doubt what a fine hobbitwife she would make one of these days, and if she made Frodo happy, then Sam must be happy for him. He glanced back, to see Frodo - still half set in his bowling stance - watching him watch Betony. For a single moment, everything seemed to stop, and there was only this silent, uneasy triangle of connection, and Frodo’s gaze upon him.

Then a sympathetic groan burst from the crowd, and there were many calls of encouragement to drown the one or two of good-natured derision; Frodo shrugged ruefully and turned to take up his second ball. His heart was not in it though, Sam could see, his five more a perfunctory resignation of the game to his opponent than a serious attempt to beat him. Frodo congratulated Nat (now speechless with delight) and then disappeared in the direction of the beer tent with his and Nat’s mugs in hand. 

Sam frowned. Now, why would Betony watching him play put Frodo off so badly? Sam knew for a fact that his own performance always improved, if Frodo were there encouraging him, albeit silently. Didn’t seem to matter what he were doing, neither – whether it were skittles or cricket or pruning (and what wouldn’t he give for the chance to find out if that might apply to _every_ endeavour; though he definitely oughtn’t to be thinking of such, right now).

It couldn’t have come as a surprise to Frodo that Betony were stopping on for the skittles, could it? Their paths mightn’t have crossed till now, but _Sam_ had known – and forced himself to ignore the fact - that the Meridews were staying at the Farthing Stone Inn and would be present tonight, for he’d been there and heard Mr Meridew tell Mr Bilbo so.

Into the flurry of gatherings and farewells outside the Produce tent as it began in earnest to empty for the day, Sam had brought Beechnut and the trap - loading the empty lunch basket that Frodo had retrieved, before tactfully assisting Dad and his uncle to climb aboard. In addition to a knapsack, Andwise had brought a basket of his own – wide and mysterious but with its cover so well tucked in that Sam couldn’t even get a casually accidental glimpse at what it might contain, as he hefted it up behind his elders.

‘Nay, Sam lad,’ Uncle Andy had said with a fierce smile - he’d a lot in common with Dad and that were a fact, Sam thought. ‘Tha mun wait while tha gets wom, t’see what mought be in theer for thee!’ he added, in the broad northern talk that Sam noticed were showing up more and more in Hamson’s mouth, too, with every Show that passed.

Sam had been waiting by the steps to the trap as a good servant should, though with no expectation in the world that Mr Bilbo would either need or welcome a helping hand to get in, for all that he could give Gaffer and Andwise nigh on thirty years apiece. 

Frodo was at Beechnut’s head, then, to steady him for loading as the many hobbits - loud and talkative, all - spilled out of the tent and flowed around pony and trap. He must surely have been close enough to hear Mr Meridew and Mr Bilbo exchanging cordial farewells? Though to be fair, they were stood a deal nearer to Sam, so he _might_ have missed Mr Pasco saying as how they’d be at the Inn for the duration of the Show and that Betony had a mind for the skittles, being as she were summat of a player on her home ground. Had Frodo believed that Betony were staying further off – with the Frogmorton Meridews, maybe - just far enough off not to want to be travelling back in the dark, at any rate? But why wouldn’t she have told Frodo of their plans? 

Then again - how could she, seeing as she’d had scarcely a minute alone with her love all day, on account of his time being completely taken up by a servant lad keeping company above his station? 

Before Sam had time for further wondering (or to make much more than a start on his inevitable guilt) he was called to play once more in the next lane but one. This match, being a quarter-final, was over five rounds, and he was up against Aldy Cotmore, a bodger's son and ’prentice too, from down towards the Woody End. It was the third time Sam had played on this particular lane tonight; he’d taken the lie of it from the first to score steadily and well - his ability to weigh up the wicket for the other kind of bowling he enjoyed had been an asset here, too. But it seemed to be failing him a bit now, for this felt trickier than it had any right to, and his first turn were a whole lot nearer Nat’s level of play than Frodo's.

Though he looked about him hopefully, he could discover no sign of Frodo amongst the spectators, and realised at once that he must have gone to find his Betony. Happen they’d had a tiff as needed settling? Over Sam and his encroaching ways, like as not, and Frodo's sense of unswerving loyalty might have seen him champion Sam, no matter how unconvinced he was of Sam’s fitness for the honour. He’d maybe not realise, at first, how that'd wound his lass, but right now he were probably regretting every minute he’d spent with Sam this day and hoping desperately to set things right with the one he’d _really_ wanted to be with. 

One thing at least Sam could be thankful for. Though she might have been around the bush a few times, as the saying went, if that _one_ were Betony Meridew, he need not worry about Frodo being accepted only for his prospects. Rumour (usually very well informed on such matters) had it that, when Pasco Meridew finally turned up his toes, his daughter would be a very well-to-do hobbit indeed. In fact, now that Sam came to think about it, she probably suffered the same way Frodo did only from the lass’s side. Maybe that were why she seemed a forward piece – she were wanting to do her own choosing, so to speak. And maybe it were another thing they’d have in common, that they could share, safe in the knowledge that each appreciated the other for himself – _her_ self – and not just as money or a position to be sought.

Sam had become so thoroughly engrossed in the conundrum that he was quite startled by the burst of loud applause and a smattering of cheers that greeted his next go. He looked up from his abstraction to find that Nat Claypole weren't the only hobbit to be favoured by undeserved luck this night. 

Very well. He would _take_ the luck that came his way. If he couldn’t have it in love, he’d take it wherever he could get it, though it may never give him what - who - the _only_ hobbit he truly wanted. This was the way that it must be, from now on. He'd never been blessed with Frodo's company for so long before at a time before, and he should never have got into the way of thinking it were right, let alone _his_ right. _Mind your own life and doings, Sam Gamgee, and give over behaving like a lovelorn maid!_ Best to stay out of Frodo's way, just be polite to his bride-to-be, and maybe get himself a— 

_No!_ Not for a good while - and even then… 

But that _was_ how it must be.

A deep breath and careful aim made a fine eight of his spare, and he gave a fierce concentration to the rest of the game, putting to good use every vestige of skill he possessed and emerging an easy winner despite Aldy’s spirited play. They shook hands on it and when Sam’s offer of an ale was turned down in light of Aldy’s lass’s appearance with a fresh mug for him, he excused himself quickly. Then, despite his vow to let Frodo alone, he stepped up onto one of the bales, searching over the heads of the crowd, unable _not_ to answer his need to know. 

And there _was_ Frodo, not with Betony at all, but halfway back from the beer tent and collared by Tom Cotton, who must now be deemed old enough to be the one to stay over at the Show with the family cattle. From the way his arms were flailing expansively and his head nodding frantically in time to whatever tale he were telling, Tom’d celebrated that fact at the bottom of one too many mugs this night. For half an unreasoning minute, Sam worried that maybe Rose had stopped on for the skittling, too, then remembered with relief that he’d seen all the younger Cottons drive off home with their mam and dad when he’d been fetching Beechnut up for Mr Bilbo. Well, he reckoned he’d best keep his place and not interrupt even that conversation, now he knew Frodo weren't— _Leave him_ be _, Sam!_

Instead, he paid a somewhat overdue trip to the privy, then wandered back to consult the master score board to see if his opponent in the semi-final had been decided yet. All four names were writ there large and clear, and what he saw caused him nothing but dismay. 

In the newly completed column _Gamgee, S._ was paired with _Meridew, Miss B._

Sam felt that he should have known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  The skittling lore (adapted to hobbitry and to the exigencies of my tale, of course) comes courtesy of my sister, who plays for a ladies’ team in the West Country (yes, very sexist, but that’s how it’s done)   
> [Here](http://www.tradgames.org.uk/games/Skittles.htm) you may find out far more than you ever really wanted to know about skittling, including why the English game has nine pins to the American ten. Many of the old West Country pubs do still retain their alleys, and new ones are included (close to the bar!) when sports facilities are built   
> To any UK goat-exhibitor who may be reading: the **S** GS, of course, is able to place complete reliance upon the probity of hobbits...  
> Bodging would have been a live craft then, is now kept alive only by the dedicated few. This [Sam](http://web.archive.org/web/20070127002327/http://www.stuartking.co.uk/articles/samuel_rockall.htm) may have been the last of the real country bodgers   
> And lastly - though far from leastly since this is the Real Thing: lest you think that I lavish skills around rather too generously, let it not be forgotten that I did borrow the Show games from somewhere:  
>  _… even grown up he had still spent a deal of his time at quoits, dart-throwing, shooting at the wand, bowls, ninepins and other quiet games of the aiming and throwing sort._  
>  The Hobbit, chapter 8 - Flies and Spiders
> 
> Frodo’s and Sam’s proficiency? Well, that is a given, is it not? In _all_ things…


	11. Show Day the First - Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which are more skittles, even more misunderstandings, and loss of sleep
> 
> Rating: you need me to tell you?

There was scarce a minute even to finish the thought that he might claim a sudden indisposition and cede the honour to Aldy, before names were called, lanes designated, and Sam was swept along no matter what. The entire assembly split between the two matches now, to observe the emergence of the night’s finalists; all other games paused for this crucial stage, all eyes upon these four successful players. He sighed as he stepped up reluctantly to greet his opponent and his own eyes instinctively sought Frodo out from the crowd, finding him quickly, his face right serious as he looked from Sam to Betony and back. Well, he might be just a bit torn, mightn’t he, having skittled with Sam enough to maybe want him to succeed for friendship’s sake, but on the other hand, of course, anxious for his Betony to win. When he caught Sam's gaze, though, he raised his mug, as Sam had done to him; generous as always, Sam thought, with a rush of love.

When they shook hands in solemn and customary fashion at the outset, Betony’s clasp was just as clinging as Sam remembered. He avoided raising his eyes lest he should see her come-hither look; he didn’t _want_ her displaying coquettishness when he knew – and she must too – that Frodo would be watching closely. But he’d decided, hadn’t he, to keep out of it, and to give his mind to his own affairs? Well, right here and now was where he should start sticking to his word. Keep his eyes on the game and to himself – no more looking to Frodo for support and approval that weren’t his to receive. 

It came as a surprise to him that Betony actually was an extremely competent skittler, her place in the final not the accident of chance that he’d suspected. Her assessment of the surface and of the game were accurate, her technique sound and high-scoring. She kept him on his toes, but Sam played with the inner confidence of one upon whom luck had chosen to smile for a time, even if only in this completely unimportant respect.

He needed it, for despite his best intentions every time he looked up from the roll of the ball or the fall of the pins, his eyes took themselves to where Frodo stood. And Frodo was always watching Betony, it seemed, his face completely impassive - but then, he’d not want everyone to know where he’d set his heart, would he? Not till it were a settled thing, at least.

It didn’t look to Sam as though any lovers’ tiff had been settled, though. He’d not seen Frodo smile at her once - not even, now he thought about it, when he’d seen her with that babe. And _she’d_ been far too taken up by the charms of the little faunt, to notice Frodo at all. They didn’t seem to have crossed gazes tonight, neither, not that Sam had seen. He shook his head. He couldn’t fathom what were going off here - were they hurting each other a _-purpose_? 

_Concentrate, Sam - it's none of your business!_

It was nip and tuck between their scores from start to finish and Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed such a close game, barring when he played Frodo, of course. Come the final round, a single point must decide the winner, and Betony’s nerve held steady as she took the nine from turn and spare. But Sam knew he was flying and could beat her here with one more strike – it was there, itching in his fingers, just waiting for him to set it free.

And yet, here was a thing he _could_ give to Miss Betony…

She’d fancied having the rose named after her, seemingly - something he simply could not bring himself to do. It had always been, would always be _Frodo's Rose_. Instead, she should have this game - with Sam's right good will. It would quiet his conscience, too, over all them things he'd thought about her.

Such uncharitable notions shamed him, now. Frodo had happen made mention of Sam being a bit of a friend as well as a servant, and maybe that were why she seemed a bit over friendly – wanting to make a good impression, on Frodo if not on Sam. Naught to do with flirting at all, and he was simply a green and foolish lad ever to have thought such a big-headed thing of one who _must_ be everything a lass should be, for Frodo to have chosen her. There he’d been, thinking her a flirtatious piece, when she probably just wanted him to be at his ease with her, the Mistress-to-be of Bag End. 

It was high time he admitted that Gaffer had been right all along: he’d got well above himself what with Frodo – no, he’d best start naming him properly again right from this minute – _Mr_ Frodo behaving so very kindly toward him. Just ‘cause _Mr_ Frodo might be in need of company now and again, Sam should never have made so much of it as he had, should never have thought himself as sharing _Mr_ Frodo’s friendship with Mr Underwood and Master Merry, who really _were_ Mr Frodo’s friends, as well as being related to him. He must start to keep his proper place, as Gaffer had always known and insisted he should, and this would be a first acknowledgement of what that place must be from now on.

Miss Betony should have this game as some small and unrealised recompense - and at least Sam would have given Mr Frodo something to make _his_ beloved smile.

If any noticed the artistry with which Sam used his turns to knock away first the quarter pins and then the rest, leaving the Bride Pin to stand in pale and lonely splendour - and Betony the victor - none mentioned it in the general clamour of commiseration for him and celebration for her. He accepted the friendly condolences with a shrug that he hoped would convey both disappointment and appreciation of a superior opponent, and turned away from the crowd. He had scarcely escaped to the cooler, shadowed edge of the crush than he was met by Frodo, who thrust a mug of ale into his hand without a word.

‘Thank you, sir. Thirsty work, that!’ He tried to sound natural, all the time wondering why Frodo weren't over there celebrating with Betony. If they’d had a falling out, surely now would be the perfect time to go to her, sweep her up into his arms and kiss her for congratulation, for reconciliation, for the joy of holding her once more; kissing until the shiver from head to toes, and especially other places between, proved how very much— 

Sam realised that his unruly imagination had carried him far from reality once more, and that the scene it was giving him so very clearly - in fine and exigent detail - contained only himself and Frodo, with never a Meridew in sight. He shut his eyes against it and took a drink. 

When he looked up, Frodo was watching him, eyes narrowed. Here was one hobbit who was not fooled by Sam’s careful manoeuvring. 

‘Well?’ Frodo said, his tone not best pleased.

‘Well, what, sir?’ Sam supped more ale, to the realisation that it had completely lost its savour.

‘ _Why_ did you give the game away?’

‘Give it away, sir?’ He knew that he was prevaricating, playing for time - could hear it in his own words, and worse, he knew that Frodo knew it, too. He just needed some way to explain to Mr Frodo how it was that— 

‘Please don’t insult my intelligence, Sam,’ Frodo said, and his voice now was so tight that listening to it almost hurt. ‘I would prefer honesty above all else. If you wished to make her a present of it, why not just say so?’

‘Present? Oh, no, sir, I didn’t—Well, not like that, you see she was— ut it warn’t really for—I only wanted—’ He couldn't speak the truth of his heart: _I did it because I need you to be happy, sir, above all else, and if making_ her _happy is what it takes, then that’s what I’ll do._

‘You let yourself down, Sam. The way you’ve been playing tonight, you could have won the Championship outright.’

A pause. From the crowd behind them came calls of encouragement to the Challenge finalists in their extended contest; the support for ‘Betony!’, ‘Miss Betony!’ and ‘Miss Meridew!’ seemed especially vociferous, but neither of them paid heed to it. 

Sam could think of nothing he might say that wouldn’t reveal the depths of his own jealous folly, in loving where he knew he should not. _He_ knew that his was far beyond a longer-lasting-than-usual teen passion – the sort of blind yearning that many a lad or lass would briefly feel for an older and most unsuitable hobbit. But there was small reason for Frodo to believe it, and none at all for him to return such unlooked-for desire. 

And there was every reason in the Shire and Middle-earth itself why Mr Bilbo’s heir should wed himself a nice lass and sire a smialful of faunts to gladden Betony’s heart and carry forward the Baggins name.

'I’m sorry, sir,’ was all that he could offer, swallowing down his dreams to a choke in his throat.

Frodo was very carefully keeping his head lowered, tracing a thumb around the rim of his ale mug as though already regretting his words. ‘No, Sam, I am the one who should be sorry,’ he said at last. ‘It is really none of my business and I have no right—I apologise.’ He set down his mug on the nearest empty bale. ‘If you will excuse me,’ he said, ‘I just need to…’ He strode off in the general direction of the privies.

Sam slumped down beside the half-full mug, almost ending up with it in his lap. Mr Frodo was hurt, he divined that clearly enough from his voice, from the sharpness in his face, the rigid set of his shoulders as he walked away. And _he_ had apologised to _Sam_ , when all must be Sam's fault entirely - he just weren’t quite sure exactly how he had caused it. He’d been so caught up in his own aching heart that he’d not taken thought for Frodo's hurt. 

Frodo had watched him give the game to Betony, and been upset by it; and more, it seemed, by the fact that Sam had stupidly tried to deny that he had gifted it to her at all. Was that the way of it, then? That Betony was the one Frodo had set his heart on, and Sam had given her this gift, not he? That _Frodo_ had wanted to be the one giving? He‘d never been one for jealousy over anything before, that Sam had seen, let alone pettiness, but Sam knew from his own experience (and especially from watching his sisters and their friends in the complicated rituals of courting) that love could make a hobbit do strange things.

It couldn’t really be aught to do with Sam’s failure at skittles, now _could_ it? Even on his own behalf, Frodo weren't a grudging loser. And he weren’t the sort to have notions of Sam’s achievements glorifying Bag End, neither; the Gamgees had never been treated as belongings to be demeaned in such a way. 

So that were one small part of this whole mess sorted.

For the rest – well, Sam had thought to give the game to Betony, to Frodo’s chosen lass, as a make-peace over the naming of the rose, and as a roundabout present for Frodo. But he couldn’t _say_ so, could he? Probably not without full confession of his own feelings, and definitely not unless or until he were invited to be party to their secret. It had never occurred to him that Frodo might think he wished to give something to Betony on his _own_ behalf.

The increasing noise from the crowd must mean that the Championship was drawing to an exciting conclusion; hobbits all around the lane of play were pushing forward, eager to catch the grand finale. But Sam cared nothing for who might or might not be winning, not when his head was so muddled. It upset him even more to think that, what with him 'letting' Betony wear his rose, and then giving the game away to her, he might unwittingly have come between Frodo and his love, and made _him_ unhappy, too.

Sam knew full well his own creeping hurt at the frequent arrival at Bag End of gift-bearing visitors - lasses demurely or flirtatiously making much of his young master (and fools of themselves, thought Sam) with their winsome smiles and crookedly embroidered handkerchiefs, ineptly-pieced and often garish waistcoats and the like (worn but the once for politeness’ sake and then thrust to the back of one of Bag End’s many capacious wardrobes, to Sam’s quiet satisfaction and relief). Could they not see that Mr Frodo had a taste for solidly serviceable quality and no mind to ill-made frippery? Seemingly not, Sam realised soon enough, for the flow of such offerings increased as Mr Bilbo’s years wore on. The extended family, it appeared, was simply rife with unattached daughters who had more than a speculative eye to marriage, and the mistaken belief that a timely gift might well be sufficient to gain the prize sought so very - to Sam’s eyes - _blatantly_.

_Oh!_ Perhaps – no, he couldn’t _really_ , could he? Frodo couldn’t actually believe that Sam were doing something of the same? He couldn’t actually believe that Sam might set himself up as a rival for Betony’s affections? Surely not? How could Sam ever compete with Frodo in _any_ thing?

But now Sam came to think about it, his mind scrambling hither and yon for reasons, explanations, excuses – anything to help him understand what was going on here - he realised that one thing he’d _not_ seen today was any sign, however small, that Betony Meridew was interested in Frodo Baggins at all. When they’d met at lunchtime, Sam had seen no pleased smiles nor even the coy and flirty looks quite seemly from a lass to a lad she’d her eye on. And here, right through their game - though he’d kept his head down and his mind on the ball (setting aside his eyes’ wandering off Frodo's way without him meaning them to at all), he'd been very aware of Miss Betony and everything she did. And at no time had he sensed _her_ attention wandering into the crowd, searching for that small moment of connection with Frodo that he knew and needed for himself. 

Happen this courtship weren’t the settled thing that Sam thought? Happen Mr Frodo were actually as pothered about whether Betony might love him as _he_ felt over Frodo? Happen that question really did need the asking?

But surely with a froward lass of Betony’s ilk, he need have no worries about it at all? Unless – _Oh, dear, surely not?_ \- unless she happened to be one of those who, for reasons unfathomable to Sam’s mind, did not find his master attractive, and with no need, either, of the Baggins fortune for sweetener. There _were_ fools, Sam knew, who said and disapproved that Frodo hadn’t the rounded, hearty look of a ‘proper’ hobbit, or maybe she was one of the few to be impervious to his quiet charm? Well, he might not go around swaggering and flirting the way some _others_ did, but there were more than enough lasses who would stand up beside him in front of the Mayor in a trice (and likely lie down under a hedge even faster). 

But if Frodo wanted Betony despite all, it might _really_ look to him as though Sam were queering his pitch. The wearing of the rose would have been a blow, arranging a visit to Hall Farm simply confirmation of Sam’s intent; and small wonder, then, that Frodo had suggested going along with him. 

A sudden hubbub announced the end of the Ninepins Championship; there was an outcry of cheering, much stamping and whistling, and many loud shouts of congratulation, but Sam could take in nothing of who might have won and really did not care.

_He_ must apologise, somehow, and right quick afore he lost his nerve. It didn't ought to be _that_ hard, surely, to put paid to any notion that he’d an interest in Betony? He didn’t really have to give reasons, did he? Frodo could know nothing of the way Sam’s brain tripped itself in circles at thoughts of marriage and such, so in the end he might manage an apology though it be rather bare of anything approaching actual explanation. 

But first he had to find Frodo. He‘d had plenty of time to get to the privy and back for a call of nature, but there was still no sign of him. Sam slipped rapidly though the crowd, registering dimly now that a large hobbit with big hands and a triumphant air was being chaired around the skittle lanes by a group of tipsy friends. The fact that this meant that Betony had indeed been defeated was unimportant now, though he hoped, of course, that it need not be another cause of sorrow for Mr Frodo.

In the cool darkness, away beyond the games and the supper tables and the noise, Sam stopped to breathe the quiet air. Outside the spread of fire- and lamplight the field seemed empty - no sign of the pairs of secret lovers Sam knew must be hiding here and there, kissing and cuddling in the shadows of hedge or tent or wagon. He wondered where Til and Rafe were, right now. He’d caught a glimpse of them together, early on - Til rushing back into the light to take his part in a match, and then stopping for a moment of adjustment as he realised that he was a bit muddled about the buttons. Sam had watched the glance they shared, the private smile, and was ashamed of his flash of envy that they should have looked so happy with each other. He knew full well that they must suffer a deal of heartache being separate so long, that they would be so again once this Show was over and the Travellers moved on. He truly did not begrudge them their love; it was only that he remembered the joy in Til’s face when his Rafe smiled for him. Only that he wished that he too might be so beloved by the one in his heart.

There was no-one at all using the privies just then, and although Sam thought to check the goat lines, they too were deserted. He scratched the poll of the little long-eared kid, noting the hurdle still tied in place over her pen. They’d have tried her without, come daylight, and been thankful for her unknown jailors, but she must have been pronounced a lepper, to be confined throughout the Show in case of loss or harm. With a sigh, he made his way to the sleeping tent, hoping that Frodo might be already there. The gathering had begun to break up, those with a walk or a ride in front of them leaving already, and many of those stopping over were on their way to bed, against another early start. 

But when Sam went in he found no hobbit snugly cocooned already on the groundsheet Mr Bilbo had lent them - there was only the shadow outline of blankets still folded neatly on their packs. Sam spread the bedding carefully, smoothing every wrinkle, taking all the time he could, but still Frodo did not appear. The flow of hobbits into the tent had dried to a trickle, murmurs had died away and snores begun, as Sam got between his blankets; they felt cool, now, and damp against his skin. He shivered, and set himself to ignore the notion that he really ought to get up and search for Frodo. _Don’t be so stupid, Sam! He’s older and wiser nor you and he’d not thank you for sticking your nose in – yet again - where it’s not needed._

He was already worrying that the tent doorway would be laced shut against Frodo, before a dark shape came carefully along the lines of sleeping hobbits and hesitated by his feet.

Sam lay quietly, his mind translating the tiny brushes of sound that he heard into Frodo’s movements. He knew when Frodo had taken off his breeches, when he rolled and stowed them, when he knelt on his blankets and then wriggled between their folds. He heard the sigh as Frodo turned to face away; and, after a long pause, the strained whisper of ‘Goodnight, Sam.’

Sam’s throat was so tight that ‘Goodnight, Mr Frodo, sir,’ was almost inaudible. 

Tonight, he heard no smooth slide of breathing into sleep before he himself succumbed to exhaustion at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  My Bride pin is actually called the Vicar, which would never have done for the Shire, of course. But to name the only white pin The Bride seems not perverse – and to leave her lonely the best possible outcome!


	12. Show Day the Second - Early

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dilemma is resolved, Sam unaccountably misses an important point, and Shire stock is prepared for judging
> 
> Rating: guess?

Before ever he opened his eyes, sleep-clogged and gritty, Sam’s first thoughts on this new morning were not of the Show and the tasks to be done, nor of the fun to be had. Instead was a waning dream remembrance of Frodo bathed in a pale light, drifting away from him into the dark - hurting as Sam himself hurt, but still going, still leaving him. There lingered a cold emptiness which did not bode well for the day. 

Only a few seconds were needed for him to recall what had happened last night; just a few seconds to wish that it might not lose him the extra closeness with Frodo that this year’s Show had given him so generously. Just a few seconds to hope that Frodo would allow him to make up for whatever his clumsy stupidity had done to their friendship. His own hurt was irrelevant in light of Frodo's, and not a thing Sam could do to set matters aright, barring this needful apology he weren’t yet sure he knew how to speak.

He crawled silently from his blankets into air that was cool and clammy, everywhere touched with a dampness that spoke of heavy dew on the fields beyond the tent, and maybe a mist, yellowing later under the promise of another hot day to come. As he shivered silently into work trousers, he didn’t take his eyes from the shadowed, tightly-covered shape that was Frodo lying with his face turned away.

Yesterday’s dawn had been perfect, every step filled with the knowledge that Frodo had chosen to accompany him. The work had seemed faster, lighter and more enjoyable simply from knowing he was working there, close at hand. 

Today’s had begun badly and was like to get worse.

But as Sam waited to collect his bacon roll and mug of tea, Frodo joined the line beside him with a low-voiced ‘Good morning, Sam,’ and a tired attempt at a smile. Though his shine was muted, smudged as the faint lilac shadows beneath his eyes, Sam thought him beautiful as always. He returned the greeting with a comment on the misty swirl that saddened everywhere with its damp, but it came out stilted and shallow as he’d never meant it to. And Frodo's hope that such a mist betokened a hot day in prospect was just as formal; their conversation might have passed between any two strangers, chance meeting on the road of a morning. Sam could think of nothing more to say, though - no way to edge past the awkwardness that lay leaden between them in the growing light.

The pattern of the morning’s work was the same, though the grass was heavier now, cold and wet and wilful, and the task far less pleasant. The mist stifled all sound, and even the cheerful exchanges of their fellows, and encouraging calls to ponies and carters alike, were dulled, seeming to come from afar though the speaker might be no more than a few paces away. Feet were drenched from the first, and foot hair draggled messily, miserably, as Sam swung and cut and swung again.

Right through the scything and pitching and feeding, and then the washing and dressing for the day, there was no calm content for either of them, and the necessary words were sober and withdrawn. Delight was subdued now, in the dawn or the task or the stock, and by the time that they took places opposite each other at table to eat a proper second breakfast, Sam was wishing with all his heart that he had never even thought of taking part in the previous night’s skittle contest; that Betony Meridew had never laid eyes on his rose; and above all that neither he nor Frodo had ever set eyes on Betony Meridew. His plate might as well have been filled with sawdust and woodchips, for all that he could taste of it. On the fringes of the banter that jested to and fro between the cut-and-cart contingent and the returning coney-catchers and fungus-fanciers, Frodo and Sam sat mute. 

Silence stung sharp between them now, where quiet was normally so comfortable, yielding to the lightest comment; thoughts shared companionably had never wanted for words. And Sam knew he could stand it no longer. He needed to get back simply the ease they’d had for as long as he could remember; no matter that Frodo was much the elder and the Master’s heir besides, Sam had counted him a friend. If the price of keeping hold of that was that he must cede any slight hope he might ever have had to this lass, then so be it. To have his Frodo back as he had always known him was more important than staking all on a foolish lad’s dream. 

‘Mr Frodo, sir?’ Sam kept his head tucked into his chest even as he said it.

Frodo’s hands stilled. He swallowed his laggard mouthful and waited, eyes fixed on his breakfast.

‘I—’ Sam drew breath, then said in a low tone, but quickly before he could think better of it, ‘I ain’t carrying no candle for Miss Meridew, sir. Nor any lass at all, if it comes to that, so—so if you—if _you’re_ …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but surely Frodo must know what he meant?

After a pause, Frodo said, ‘Nor am I, Sam.’

‘Oh. I—Are you sure, sir?’

‘More than sure, Sam. Are you?’

‘Oh, yes, sir!’

The taut silence eased, so subtly that Sam couldn’t have said exactly how it happened, but _this_ silence he could cope with; it grew warm again and once more filled with things that didn’t need saying between friends. He looked up at last, to see Frodo glancing back at him. Their smiles began as one, a little sheepish at first, each of them embarrassed to have made much of something that mattered so little, now; then whole-hearted and full of satisfaction that their friendship was untarnished. 

They returned to their breakfasts with real appetite, with second and maybe third helpings a very good idea, now. One of the mushroom hunters was holding forth at length and with not a little boastfulness on the proficiency of the pig he was intending to use for the upcoming truffle-hunting season. There was a deal of good-natured ribbing around the table – apparently the sow was even fonder of truffles than her owner; and when Sam laughed he met Frodo’s eyes, sharing the joke with him and more – that closeness he had feared he might have lost for good. For now, he’d room to feel naught but relief, his gloom vanishing just as the heavy mist warmed and thinned and then melted to nothing. In its last moments - when the sun’s rays caromed joyfully from drop to tiniest drop as she kissed each one away – her glare was almost blinding, but it lighted on his laughing Frodo and showed him more beautiful than ever.

~

Not so very much later, Sam was beginning to feel a little – well, _lonely_ about summed it up. Most years, he’d do the rounds of the Show partly alone and partly with a friend here or there as they met up. Occasionally, he’d spent time with Frodo and Merry, though he’d never out-stayed his welcome there, since Master Merry obviously didn’t want to see the Show with a gardener’s lad. Frodo’d not have told the difference, but Sam knew; you’d to _be_ a servant to know when you were being seen as one. Generally, he’d keep busy and moving on - enjoying everything, no matter who he was with.

But this year was different. This year, he had spent two whole days and two blessed nights, almost all of it in Frodo’s company, and though it might have played hummer with his composure from time to time, he’d have swapped places with no-one, nowhere. He’d got used to having Frodo there with him to share appreciation of the delights of the Show; used to being teased and shyly teasing over their feats of skill at the various sideshows; to meeting Frodo’s eyes in amusement at some absurdity, best left unvoiced for tact’s sake. He’d got used to having Frodo to himself, though he still hadn’t worked out where this lass might be, that Frodo wanted so desperately to _ask_ , since it weren’t Betony Meridew at all (thank goodness). But then, the Took clan hadn’t put in much of an appearance as yet, so maybe the answer lay there, somewhere? 

He might have shelved that problem for the time being, but he really should pay heed to this feeling of loss, now and especially last night; take it as his wake-up call. After all, this was – what had Frodo said, their first night here? _A little to one side of the real thing_. Real enough while it were happening, maybe, but afterwards it’d be like remembering a tale you’d been told and loved in the hearing, but that left you a bit sad when it were done. Back at home, at Bag End, life would go on much as it always had, and this new closeness he had begun to feel would dissipate. As it must, of course, with Frodo like to wed some time in the next year or five - he’d be of age, near enough, come this time next year, so it were high time Sam should come to terms with it.

He knew full well that such thoughts were pushing uncomfortably into his head again, simply because he’d no sooner got his Frodo back again than Mr Bilbo had arrived to take him off for a stint as a trainee judge, the second day of the Show being mostly about the appraisal of Shire farm stock. Sam was left to take Beechnut in hand, with instructions that the day’s luncheon basket and an unexpected cloth bundle should be deposited in the judges’ tent.

That done and the pony properly settled, he thought to take a stroll through the bustling livestock area himself, to get his eye in, so to speak. It’d help him feel, just a bit, that he were sharing even this with Frodo when it came to his part in the judging. All around him herd- and poultry-hobbits were engaged assiduously in whatever washing, grooming, oiling or powdering was deemed still to be necessary (along with the extra and very secret little knack each hobbit held to, that might just be the one thing needed to beat their nearest rival to that coveted rosette).

He began, albeit briefly, with the poultry, since they were closest to hand. He’d admit there to be a fine variety of birds present, but his enthusiasm was less than keen. Geese were well-known to be aggressive, and he’d dread to think what damage them feet’d do, set loose in a garden. Intruders bent on taking Mr Bilbo’s ripening fruit might well be scared off - but would such flapping great paddles have _left_ any strawberries to ripen, setting aside what the birds might steal for themselves? And with them right long necks, they’d probably strip a currant or a gooseberry bush as soon as look at it. 

Ducks’d be nigh on as bad, only shorter and with slightly smaller feet, let alone that there weren’t no stream near Bag End, nor any pond neither. He devoutly hoped Mr Bilbo wouldn’t be thinking of getting him to dig one any time soon, leastways not for ducks to make a mess of. Sam could puddle clay as well as the next hobbit, but he knew it always leaked in the end - which would come sooner rather than later, once a succession of questing beaks had their way.

He acknowledged that the cockerels, hard and soft feather alike, were fine enough looking - their elaborate plumage all fancy patterns and well-sheened colours, with them vivid combs by way of contrast. But it had to be said that hens’d lay as well and better without their randy ways; they were good only to upset layers and to make a confounded racket half the day, no matter they were supposed only to crow in the dawn. When you could buy or barter for a setting of eggs, you were better off without their nuisance so close to home. And hens themselves were just plain peevish, apt to go off lay just when their eggs were most needed. 

Sam had experience of chickens in the past. He’d a particularly unsettling memory of a day when Mam, thinking the birds safely away down the field, had sent him to collect the eggs when he were nobbut a faunt; of a meeting, face to face, with a cockerel nigh on as big as he, many times as fierce, and armed with a sharp and slashing beak. The bloody cheek and hands might be a long time in the past (and the culprit long since consumed – vengefully on Sam’s part - in a tasty stew), but he was still not anxious to resume an intimate acquaintance. Providing alcoholic treats for someone else’s fowls was as close as he wanted to get these days - barring omelettes and chicken pie and the like, of course.

Of course, Daddy Twofoot was here in person, brought along in the trap by Mr Bilbo this morning. His old legs would scarcely have carried him so far any longer, and he could never have managed the covered basket that concealed Muriel’s occasional puzzled clucking as Frodo, before he disappeared on judging duty, helped her owner across to the penning area. Muriel was by far and away the most prized of Daddy’s hens - a Shire Dumpy, her feathering perfect (so he claimed) in its cuckoo bars of black and grey, her rosy comb the ideal foil. She was a generous layer too, and prone to double yolkers as Sam knew well. He had never thought to ask a return for his sozzled slugs, but it seemed a matter of honour to repay such bounty, and a small but regular supply of white-speckled earth-brown eggs was passed along Bagshot Row to Number 3 – an ideal arrangement, all round. A nodded greeting came Sam’s way now, but the old hobbit was far too engrossed in assessing the opposition (to the detriment of each and every one, no doubt) to spare the time for more.

Sam left him to his real enjoyment of this rare day out – winning no desperate matter, though it’d be nice, of course – and went to cast his eye over the pigs. Ambling the perimeter of the pens, he kept well clear of anxious hobbits intent only on preparing their charges to be shown off before the judge, and who were therefore in no mind to have a casual watcher underfoot and adding to their cares. Instead, he exchanged glances with the Shire Lops, that peered intelligently at him from under great lax ears. He grinned back at Midshire Whites with their squashed up noses and ridiculous smiles. He weighed up the magnificent Long Cleeve Curly Coats - he’d no experience of their pork, for they were common only up around Cleeve, but he’d lay all that hair took some getting off your crackling - and the Girdley Old Spots that he’d heard made good, possibly the best, mothers.

There were few things more comfortable than the sound of a contented pig and there seemed no lack of them here; most of them wanting no more than to settle for a post-breakfast nap but that their owners were spreading a bustle of nervous pre-show activity. Here lay a vast black matron, a wide saddle of pink across her shoulders, like a pale, close-knit shawl that disappeared to knot behind her forelegs. She whuffled contentedly, nose twitching in the straw as she dozed – obviously intending that her turn to be shown should come rather later, if at all. Her belly was lined with banded piglets in tiny, parallel rows; some under, some over, tails tightly curled at their backs, all were engaged in the most important task of their young lives. Of course, she might yet lose one or two of her babes, for all she showed so fruitful; she were just a mite _too_ well done, and the laying on of piglets easier the bigger the gilt. 

In the next pen reclined a ginger sow, less burdened with offspring that were older and formed but a single line, though they were fat and sturdy as ever piglets might be. But, then, the fine spotted sow further along had a generous brood, well-made and apt enough for eating or for breeding – and he’d not even set eyes on black Biddy as yet, with her latest litter that Til seemed confident would be in and amongst the rosettes. Sam wondered how in the Shire all the varied achievements _could_ be compared and, taken all in all, he were right glad he hadn’t the awarding to do.

He realised now that time was getting on, that the bell would ring soon for the start of the day’s showing, and that he'd not have time to look at sheep and cattle both. The sheep were furthest away though, so the choice made for him would not have been his first. There seemed to be cows, calves and bullocks - and the odd bull or three – by the multi-coloured yard, all securely tied to the bars and posts he’d helped set up. Hard to see the cow for the kine, when looking from end to end of just _one_ were such a long job, he thought. But farmers these days seemed to be breeding them bigger and bigger – and surely they must be more difficult to handle? They’d trouble calving them, too, so he’d heard. And never mind that they were bred for a gentle temperament, and were daft as brushes besides, they still loomed at a fellow. And _nobody_ would ever tell Sam Gamgee that those great hooves didn’t hurt, coming down square on bare hobbit toes. Even that small black breed that the Oldacres kept – the Darksters, that Til’s dad liked so much because they matched his beloved Darkshire pigs - even _they_ were a bit hefty for Sam’s liking.

Then the back of his neck felt warmly damp, and a sweet-sour gust of breath swept past his face as he turned quickly, stepping back just in time to avoid the sweep of a large black tongue to his nose...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  Puddled by [clay puddling](http://www.herpetofauna.co.uk/forum/uploads/21752/puddling.gif)? The truly obsessive might like [this](http://www.findonvillage.com/inddew.htm), too  
> [Truffle-hunting ](http://www.ottavia.com/truffles_hunt.html)was, of course, a favourite winter sport of the fungus-loving hobbit (though I doubt that they would have found any hobbit to pay [quite so much](http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7123414.stm) for the privilege of eating them…)  
> As I see it, hobbit livestock would have been selectively bred over many years to suit their needs – this would include size, of course, so that their stock need not, _pace_ PJ, be so _very_ much bigger than they. The breeds (almost) referenced in this chapter exist or have existed here – with trifling adjustments of nomenclature, of course! To trace the ones we still have, try the [RBST](http://www.rbst.org.uk/html/rare_breeds.html). [ This one](http://www.britishpigs.org.uk/trad4.htm), unfortunately, _didn’t_ make it into the 21st century - possibly in light of the very drawback upon which Sam ponders… **Update** : apparently since I wrote this, the breed has been ['reconstituted'!](http://www.journallive.co.uk/north-east-news/todays-news/2010/08/04/lincolnshire-curly-coat-pigs-arrive-at-beamish-museum-61634-26994086/)  
> If you remember, the Oldacres’ Biddy is a relative of Bland’s friend [ Pig-wig](http://www.berkshirepigs.org.uk/); their cattle may be found [here](http://www.dextercattle.co.uk/)  
> Muriel is a composite, ideal sort of hen - see [here](http://www.poultryclub.org/breed-gallery/chickens) to find her constituent parts; DT had, of course, been breeding selectively for years! (She is also a tip to a character, long mourned!)  
> And if JRRT regards the Sun as female, who am I to say him nay?


	13. Show Day the Second - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Til brings a hope that Sam can scarce believe, Sam proves susceptible to feminine wiles, Frodo suspects him of a weakness for blonde lasses - and judging proceeds apace
> 
> Rating: *sigh*

‘She likes you!’ Til said, with a grin.

‘She may, but I think I’ll wait and see how we go on afore committing meself!’ Sam said, though the heifer was a beauty, groomed to a bright copper sheen in the sunlight. She almost had Til’s grin, too, he thought. ‘No need to ask how you are this morning – I hope your ma and pa are well?’

‘Aye, Dad’s taken Wil and Aster to get Biddy and the piglets redded up for their classes, and Ma’s got the rest of the family working on the other cattle. I’ve only escaped because I got Dol up to scratch in quicksticks – she didn’t need much doing, so I’m enjoying the peace and quiet while I wait for her class. It’s first to be called, and it never pays to keep the judge waiting.’

‘She’s a bonny lass, but isn’t she the wrong colour?’ Sam enquired. ‘I thought all Darksters were black.’

‘You insulting my Dol?’ Til made a mock fighting face, then smiled. ‘Well, mostly they are but you get a red or a dun, now and again. Our Humph’s granddam were a red so he throws the odd calf like Dol. It’s allowable, though some judges prefer the black and go by that. But she’s pretty good otherwise, so she should stand more'n half a chance at a rosette.’ Til scratched behind her ear, and Sam watched Dol’s huge brown eyes go half-lidded with pleasure. But Til were scratching absent-mindedly and looking straight at Sam now, like he were worried for some reason. He hesitated, then said, ‘P’raps it’s none of my business, Sam, but I know you went to see Mrs Lee yesterday.’

Sam frowned. ‘How d’you know that, then?’ 

‘She’s Rafe’s grandma. We had supper with her, last night.’

‘Oh, right.’ The stew that had bubbled on the hob, no doubt, in that tidy space where Sam had been promised _a long life… a long dark… a longer love…_ and something had happened to hurt his Frodo.

Til nodded. ‘She really does have the Sight, Sam, she _can_ See. Not always - never for her own close kin, or so she says. She can’t for me, neither – nothing she’ll tell, at least, and I don’t know whether that’s a good sign or not. Because of—because of me loving Rafe, I mean. You think that might make me family, Sam?’ 

‘I’d’ve said it ought to,’ Sam said, wanting to reassure Til when there was such wistfulness in his voice, but having no idea at all how that might work. He very much doubted that the wider Baggins clan would accept _him_ into _their_ family on account of him loving Frodo, but things might be different amongst the Travellers. Mrs Lee had at least invited him to supper, which had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Sam tried not to remember Mr Underwood’s complete dismissal of him nor Master Merry’s careless disregard. At least Mr Bilbo didn’t see fit to keep him at arm’s length like that, for he'd kindly included Sam again for the picnic lunch today. 

‘Any road, she asked if I knew who the pair was as had come to see her – one of them had to be you, though she actually claimed you was handsome and well-set up!’ He pulled a face and Sam grinned bashfully. ‘T’other – well, she said he was nobbut a wisp of a lad, all dark curls and blue eyes and not like a proper hobbit at all, begging his pardon if he'd heard. More like an elf she reckons she saw once afore it vanished into some trees.’ Til paused to consider the unlikelihood of this – everyone knew that elves were only to be found in tales and legends. ‘Except for being shorter, o’course,’ he added judiciously, remembering one of the points made strongly in such stories.

‘I knew, right off, it had to be you and Mr Frodo that she meant. And then she said,’ he paused again, as though not entirely certain Sam would welcome what he was about to say, then plunged on, ‘she said she saw love between you, Sam. Like I did - I saw it too.’ 

Sam was surprised by a sudden, overwhelming relief that at last someone _else_ knew of his love for Frodo. As though that knowing might somehow make it possible, this secret hope that he’d wanted for so long to shout from the top of the Mathom House. Or maybe from one of the White Towers – anywhere high would do if it’d raise him up enough to echo far and wide the news of his love and the perfections of his Frodo. Though _that_ ‘d never be possible, of course, to have just one single hobbit know was so much more satisfying than he could have thought. But…

‘Aye, well, it’s only the one way, isn’t it?’ he said heavily.

‘No, I don’t think it is, Sam. And Granny Lee didn’t think it, neither. She said as you didn’t know each other’s mind yet, but it’d not be long in coming.’

That seemed so very unlikely, though so completely what he wanted; after his night of empty fretting and then that wretched dream, it was almost cruel in Til to tell him so. Mrs Lee were just looking for another couple of lads to pair off, because Til and Rafe were so much in love, and there weren’t no sense in believing this foretelling any more than the coppered sky he thought he’d seen.

But that had _felt_ real – and Frodo had seen it too, or something very near… 

‘She said bad things were going to happen to you and Mr Frodo far on in the future, but she were sure you’d be happy in the end. I just thought you ought to know that, Sam.’ Til’s voice trailed off, and Sam didn’t need to hear him say it to know that was all he'd want for himself and Rafe, too.

Sam didn't know how to take this. It would be wonderful indeed to know that happiness might be his – _theirs!_ \- eventually, but he weren’t sure he dared believe it. And he definitely didn’t like the sound of what came between, in that far off future - no more’n he’d liked the parched heat and the threatened feeling that had come with it, even though it seemed they might stand together against whatever the threat might be. That part _couldn't_ be true, for such things simply didn’t happen in the Shire, so the rest of her Seeing must be thrown all into doubt.

‘Aye, well…’ He hesitated, uncertain how to answer. _I don’t believe you, or her_ would be just plain rude. _I don’t dare believe such a thing, for it’ll only make it worse if_ \- when - _it turns out that she’s wrong_ would be to throw Til’s kindness back in his face, for he meant only to help. That must hurt him two ways, and Sam wouldn’t do it. ‘I’ll hope on that then,’ he said, ‘and thank you for telling me.’

Til must have heard the doubt in his voice but he nodded to accept the change of subject, when Sam asked, ‘So, how’d you and Meg get on in the heats yesterday?’ 

‘We won,’ Til said simply but without a hint of boasting. ‘She did us proud, did the lass, and now we’ve seen the opposition, I reckon more than ever that she’s in with a chance at the rosettes this year!’

‘That’s grand, Til! Frodo and me—We’ll—I’ll—’ Sam paused as Til smiled knowingly at his stutterings. ‘Maybe me and Mr Frodo might make it to watch you, then!’ he finished.

‘Well,’ Til said with a sly grin, 'since _Mr_ Frodo already promised to fetch you to see Rafe in the Little Show, so maybe _you_ could bring _him_ along to the finals?’

Sam laughed and swatted at him, laughing when Til ducked away, right into Dol’s wet nose. She was bored now, for Til had ceased his tickling of her ears. ‘If we can, we’ll be there! Will Rafe get along to see you?'

‘Depends on when we’re drawn to run,’ Til said, ‘but I hope so. I do better when he’s watching.’

‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘I know just what you mean.’ They were grinning widely now, each of them thankful for this freedom to guard neither tongue nor face when he spoke of his love.

'It’s good to see you look so content, Til,’ Sam said, and then would have given much to take back his words, for Til’s face closed up once more at this clumsy reminder. ‘Oh, Til, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it, though it’s true! And sorrier still that you and he must be parted.’

'Aye, well,' Til said with a sigh, 'that's how it is, and naught to be done about it.'

'Why does he travel, Til?' Sam had often wondered this of the Travellers. For all that he and Frodo had toyed with the notion of a home on wheels, he could imagine few worse things than never having a smial or cot to call your own, a settled place to put down roots (and every one of those worst imaginings involved Frodo and some manner of parting).

Til shrugged. ‘It’s all he’s ever known. He was born to it, same as I was to the land. Two such opposites should never love—’ He stopped, for it had been Sam’s turn to draw a sharp breath. ‘Oh, Sam, I'm the one that's sorry, now - I never meant you and—’ 

‘No, but it’s true, isn’t it? The Master’s heir and the gardener’s lad - that would be just as contrary, or worse.’

‘I’m hoping better things for you, at least,’ Til said, with an attempt at an encouraging smile. ‘And meantime, we’re here and the weather’s fine, partings are brief and there’s plenty of fun to be had together after the work’s done. So I’m not thinking beyond tomorrow, and nor should you, Sam Gamgee! Which reminds me - why _are_ you loitering here on your own?’ 

‘Frodo—’ Sam grinned, ‘Frodo's off with Mr Bilbo, learning to be a judge. I was just having a gander around while I waited for the bell. Any minute now, I should think, so I suppose I’d best get meself over there. Good luck, Til. We’ll look for you later, all being well!’

~~~

_Now, this has to be a far better way of getting your milk than them great clod-footed cows!_

In the goat section the hurry was fiercer, if anything, the titivating even more dedicated. He knew from time spent with Jess in years gone by that these owners would have been on the go a good bit longer than most hobbits at the show, aside from early milking. It was nothing for them to arise an hour or two before the Sun for a spot of hoof-scrubbing or knee-washing and –powdering. Where a goat showed white, it seemed she’d to be _really_ white, and many were the preparations employed to bring that about, should so pristine a state be not a natural blessing. The results were at their most most impressive in the black and white goats, for they shone in the sunshine like polished jet, all tipped with snow. The brown and whites just couldn’t compete for contrast or for gloss, their appeal being more comfortable than striking, though the whites must sparkle just the same.

He was surprised to notice - now he wasn’t too busy chasing errant kids (or seeking an errant master) in the mostly dark to have the time – that among the goats that came in the usual colours and patterns, there were several with long and lustrous coats of tawny amber or russet or white-wine gold. He’d heard of the Golden Gamwich goats – how could he not, when his forebears had come from that same region and passed down tales of their fame? He had never actually seen one before, though their gentle nature, smaller size and rich milk were a byword in the family for the benefit a single animal could bring to a household. 

When his proffered hand was met with a gently demanding bunt to be scratched behind the ears, Sam obliged willingly; when she fluttered her eyelashes at him, twisting her head this way and that for the very best of tickles, his mind turned at once to the second log-store, built along with Bag End but unneeded since the smial had never been blessed with an abundance of Bagginses all requiring fires in their rooms. Sam kept his barrow and the apple baskets and ladders and whatnot in there, but it would make a fine, snug home for a doe and her kids, given a properly limed floor; and Mr Bilbo owned and rented out all the nearer fields that would graze them. The thought lasted only a few minutes, though. He knew his days to be full enough with tasks in garden and smial, to say naught of his responsibilities to help Mr Bilbo’s tenants whenever planting or harvest needed an extra pair of hands; and milking were a twice a day task, choose what other calls on his time. 

‘Nay, lass,’ he said regretfully, his fingers still questing between her horns as she squirmed to a better angle for the scratching. ‘Much as I’d like to, I’ll not be taking you home.’

‘Seduced by a _blonde_ lass this time, Sam?’ 

Sam blushed, to be heard talking to the stock like that, let alone the implication Frodo seemed to be making, that he had some interest in feminine curls. ‘I were just thinking it’d be nice to have one up at Bag End, sir.’

Frodo’s eyes opened ostentatiously wide and his eyebrows shot out of sight beneath his hair.

‘A goat, that is, sir. For milk and cheese.’ But Frodo weren’t looking like that about no milk, nor cheese neither.

‘A goat. Right.’ He just stood there, but Sam was convinced that those eyes were laughing at him.

‘’Twould be a good thing to have, sir, except that I’m thinking that she’d need more time and attention than I can spare.’

‘I’m reliably informed that most of them do, Sam!’ 

‘You shouldn’t make fun, sir. I were being serious.’

The smile disappeared. ‘So was I, Sam.’ 

‘No lass, Mr Frodo. I said so.’ 

‘A lad then?’ The question was voiced so quietly that Sam could take from it no sense of disapproval - but nor could he take hope, despite what Til might say. 

‘A hobbit of my own to love, who’d love me in return, sir.’ He couldn’t look up as he said it, in case he found rejection in Frodo's face. ‘The rest makes no difference.’ 

‘No difference at all…’ Frodo echoed, and Sam wondered and allowed himself that hope. 

‘Fro _DO!_ ’ Bilbo’s voice echoed out across the goat pens, and Frodo jumped, guilt clear in his face. There was already a selection of exhibitors, goats in tow (though in a couple of cases, it looked to be the other way around - novices were always welcomed), all lining up to await judgement; and now the great bell clanged out to announce the commencement of the day’s showing.

‘I have to go,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’ve had my quick course in “What to look for in the perfect goat, bearing in mind that she doesn’t exist”. Now I just have to prove that I learned something from it! Don’t laugh too hard, when I make a mess of it, will you, Sam?’ The last was only half in jest, flung over his shoulder as he rushed off to stand ready with Bilbo, in the centre of the Show ring.

‘I won’t, because I won’t need to,’ Sam called after him. _And still were there reason, I would not, because I love you and could never do such a thing to you!_ was best not spoken aloud, so he didn’t. 

He followed, more temperately, to stand at the ringside and study the proceedings, reckoning it a good idea that Frodo's judging career should begin with goats, if he must judge at all. Bilbo had insisted that he should have a go, at least, for he might (so Bilbo claimed) even enjoy the experience. Sam was somewhat dubious as to how you _could_ properly assess them great cattle at all, when you couldn’t hardly see from one end to t'other without turning your head, so it stood to reason that Frodo would be better off with the goats – more his size to start with, let alone that they could be right friendly. Sam recalled the seductive bunts for attention, and wondered if a spot of eyelash-fluttering might be a secret weapon that some goats would use to advantage when it came to being judged. He must remember to ask Frodo if it had been tried on him.

Amazing, he thought, watching carefully, the way some hobbits could make a decent enough goat look like a bag of laundry on a lead, and others take quite an ordinary one and almost magically change her to look right special. By the looks of it, you could have a knack for showing – goats, at any rate - as much as for gardening or any other craft. And a keen observer soon noted that the shrewd handler did his or her fiddling while the judge was not looking that way. A gentle tap of the toes to each back leg, and your goat took a pace backwards, which stretched her out and made her look more elegant. A quick pinch to a charmed spot somewhere on the backbone, and one that looked to have a dip in her back and a pronounced slope to her tail would suddenly snap herself together and produce a longer and straighter topline - the ideal for which (it seemed to Sam) the judge was looking and the exhibitor must aim. 

He watched as Frodo followed his uncle’s lead, noting sometimes a confirmatory nod, sometimes more lengthy discussion over the placings. Mr Bilbo must have the final say, of course, but he listened to and seemed to take full account of whatever comment Frodo had to make.

At elevenses – when judging paused for a brew and a quick bite, if no more – Frodo was released from his trial, for he was slated to stand only in the classes for milking goats. From an impressive line-up of the breeds, each goat standing proud to have won her class already, his two masters had arrived – who knew how, since every one looked perfect to Sam – at the mutual choice of a long, low and elegant all-white lady, sleek and pristine in the sunshine, who bore herself like the Champion she was (it being easy enough, he thought, to ignore the cloud of powdered chalk that hovered in the air above her when she were patted).

Sam made haste, then, to fetch the needful from the refreshment tent and he had tea and a selection of cakes and biscuits awaiting his masters as soon as they’d washed their hands for the umpteenth time. 

Once Bilbo had been served, he made a series of shooing gestures. ‘Go on,’ he said, still rubbing the necessary salve into his fingers; of Mistress Earthy’s finest make, it guaranteed no chafed skin though his hands would be wet and dry many more times before his judging was completed. ‘I know you’re dying to get back to the real business of the Show! Off you go – but next year you shall judge _all_ the classes, Frodo, not just a half!

Frodo grinned. ‘You’re a wickedly hard task master!’ he said. ‘And next year I shall be very nearly of age, and being old and sober like you, may be too old to play at the Show!’

‘You’re never too old!’ Bilbo retorted fast enough, but Sam thought there might be a shadow of sorts on him when he said it. Though remarkably sprightly for his years, perhaps he were thinking such health may not last while the next GAFFS came around? Was that why he were wanting Frodo to begin some of the duties of a judge, so he might take over when such time arrived?

Sam was still pondering this, when Frodo set down a rapidly emptied cup, pocketed a few biscuits for later, and looked across at him. ‘Ready?’

Sam hesitated. Really, he ought to wait and take back the tray when Mr Bilbo had done with it. His wages were paid for this week, same as any other, and Mr Bilbo shouldn’t to have to see to such things himself.

‘Get on, the both of you!’ Bilbo said. ‘But keep an eye on the showing and make sure to be back for lunch as soon as I’m done, for I’ll not save you much! And, Sam?’ 

‘Mr Bilbo, sir?’

‘Keep him out of mischief – if you can!’

Frodo laughed at the implied slur to his character, and towed Sam away by the elbow. ‘Come on! There’s still so much to see and to do!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  Click [here](http://www.allgoats.com/breeds2.htm#) to see a couple of the blond lasses at a show (one of them actually belongs to me), and [ one or other of these](http://www.allgoats.com/breeds1.htm#) is how the naughty kid may have looked when she grew up.   
> My beloved beta Notabluemaia - all love, praise and honour to her! - was not familiar with the verb _to titivate_ , so it may be an _English_ English special **:** to tidy/smarten/put finishing touches to/prettify - maybe even to gild the lily!


	14. - Show Day the Second - Late Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes observe many kinds of expertise, are reminded that things are not always as they seem, and Sam rings Frodo's bell. As it were.
> 
> Rating: Yes. Sorry

They had missed so many sights, yesterday, in their haste to get to the Rides first off and then to enjoy the many games and sideshows. Now, there was time enough just to stand and watch whatever might be offered for their interest. 

Indeed, across the Showground, the prevailing mood was noticeably different. The first day had been all rush and bustle, each hobbit clearly determined to take a part in as many of the delights on offer as was possible. Though there were nigh on as many folk here today, they tended to walk more slowly and were readier to take note of what passed on either hand; yesterday’s hurried greetings and promises of _a bit of a talk_ to come, could now be fulfilled. These chats were often far more probing, and in not a few cases an entire year’s worth of news needed to be exchanged and analysed. Quite naturally, the tables and tea trays of the refreshment tent were called upon for support. 

Teens and tweens were, of course, immune as yet from such staid activity, though it was quite amazing just how many of your friends, neighbours and the occasional relative you saw to nod to or compare quick notes with, as to what each considered the most worth seeing and doing. It went without saying that there must also be those whose path you would prefer _not_ to cross. 

Sam’s heart hammered loudly for several minutes when Frodo tugged him suddenly and without warning into hiding behind one of the booths, as a cluster of Sackville-Bagginses came into sight. Whatever he whispered laughingly into Sam’s ear was lost to the sensation of warm damp breath upon highly sensitive skin. An unintended caress maybe, but one Sam was extremely loth to forgo when - well before he’d really had chance to appreciate it - Barkis Dallimore, the stall-owner, teetered around the corner at them. He was almost lost to sight behind the high and unsteady pile of basketry in his arms, and quite obviously in need of some assistance - eagerness to satisfy incipient customers having temporarily overcome his common sense.

It was well-known that the volume of sales of every kind was greater on this second day. Hobbits stopping to observe or to gossip were seen to lower to the ground purchases uncounted and seemingly unlimited. Many were thankful indeed, not for the respite only, but for the bloodflow resumed in hands squeezed tight by the carrying of string bags, or by the quantities of twine (with the occasional bobble of red sealing wax) that overlaid large and mysterious packages, carefully done up in brown paper. Cannier shoppers left the torture of such bags at home and made a visit to the basket-maker’s booth their first call, reckoning a dead weight on the arm less painful than complete numbness closely followed by an exquisite agony of pins and needles as the life returned to pinched and deadened fingers. 

Frodo and Sam, having assisted Barkis with the setting down and distribution of his burden, paused amongst the many to watch the weavers, son Darkis and his cousin Edric, at work. The two sat back to back, lacking the familiar wall of their workshop, propped beside a narrow trough of soaked rods. Legs outstretched before them, each rotated a basket between his knees, the willow withies whisking deftly in and out, thick or thin as needed for wale or rand or slew. The product of their skill would be always in demand throughout the Shire; whatever needed shifting from here to there, a basket was so often the best and sometimes the only means of doing it. Great strong creels made for moving goods from crockery to taters, from apples to glassware; lighter baskets better suited to green beans, to mushrooms or strawberries. For aught from new-laid eggs to fresh-baked bread (or a trifle of Show-shopping), no-one in the Shire could ever have too many baskets. 

For any hobbit, watching someone else at work could provide matter of considerable interest - even if he were simply digging a hole. To watch an expert demonstrate the mastery of a time-honoured craft held a fascination all its own; and since such waiting curiosity might well lead to a purchase, it was a dull-witted crafter indeed who didn’t put on at least short displays of the particular skill on offer.

Next laid out to view here was a fine selection of new-made kettles and pots, whistles, ladles, buttons and the like, where the Travelling tinker showed off his proficiency in soldering. (The face of his young helper showed only a not-quite-rebellious scowl as he worked the bellows for his da until Da should release him to enjoy himself once more.) There was no lack of items urgently in need of such repair, all brought by those staying over at the Show – tinware being notoriously easy to damage or burn through and requiring skilled attention often. It remained mostly the province of poorer folk, for whom mending would always be the preferred (perhaps the only) option over buying anew. And behind the goods for sale, his grindstone stood ever ready for use on the precious steel of their knives and scissors.

More familiar to most was Jervis Milliband, Hobbiton’s own potter, who had brought along his treadle wheel not only for an exhibition of how his wares were made, but also to provide a minor sideshow. He could not expect to sell much at all, heavy and breakable as his pots must be in the carrying, but he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to take a part in the Show. The wheel fetched in for him a steady flow of pence, far and away more than the trade lost had he sat at home in his empty workshop awaiting customers who were probably most of them here, anyway. Since even the most unlikely of hobbits seemed to nourish a secret desire to attempt the throwing of at least a shallow breakfast bowl, Jervis was more than pleased to indulge their wishes. If warranted, and for an extra copper or two, their efforts would be transported back to take a part in the next firing of Jervis’s kiln.

‘If skills were got by watching, every dog’d be a butcher,’ Sam quoted sententiously, as a cocksure tween tried desperately to emulate Jer’s casual raising of a rounded lump into a beautifully elegant vase. Failing miserably, the would-be potter somehow ended up with a considerably mangled mess of raw clay, wet and sticky in his lap. Most fortunately, it was protected by the voluminous overall with which Jervis thoughtfully provided customers for use at his wheel.

Frodo grinned. ‘Where _does_ your Gaffer get all his sayings, Sam?’

‘My granfer, and his before him, so I’m told. Although,’ he added, in an undertone, ‘I reckon he sometimes makes them up as he goes along!’

‘Sam Gamgee!’ Frodo said, in a tone of mock horror. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

‘Easy, when there’s only you listening!’ _Now,_ that _were a bit too quick and close to home!_ ‘Have you ever had a go, sir?’ he asked, in a hasty attempt to change the subject, lest Frodo think him unmannerly and forward. ‘At the pottery, that is?’ He was almost sure that Frodo's first, slow smile had not much to do with pottery, but then it became a laugh of recollection. 

‘Oh, yes! And I was just as over-confident as Rowley, there. I spent a deal of time and pence here one year, until Jervis took pity on me and refused to accept any more if _I_ would accept that clay and I are far better off, the further we are apart!’

‘I think it may be having so many folk watching, just waiting for you to make a mollock of it, as rattles a body,’ Sam offered by way of consolation, knowing that that had been at least a part of the reason for his own difficulty in taming the clay under his hands, last year. ‘The mug I made actually went into Jer’s kiln, but it didn’t make it out again – leastways not in one piece! Though he did give me the firing penny back,’ he added, fairly.

‘So, one of those skills best learned in private, then?’

‘Aye,’ Sam managed, noting a raised brow and another slow smile, and wondering that Frodo could make so innocent a statement sound so much like what he couldn’t really have meant, but that Sam would want him to if only it were possible. As it were. He looked away quickly to what might next present itself to view.

Ah, the hatter, enjoying a brisk trade and having mostly sold already the generous stock he’d brought along. Not the usual felt, stretched and steamed and blocked, then decorated to a customer's preference; today, his ’prentices were hard at work soaking straw and plaiting away for dear life, to make hats enough to shape and dry in time to sell on the morrow. The hot sun had enjoined a purchase upon many a hobbit remiss enough to have travelled here through morning mist without his usual summer headgear; or maybe, as with many a youngster, having mislaid it along the way. 

Sam was considering whether he could tactfully suggest that Frodo might invest in one – knowing as he must that today was like to be the hottest yet and that Frodo, being on the whole more of an indoor hobbit than not, might need the shade - when Frodo said, as though in reply, ‘A pity I look so ridiculous in a straw hat – I may need one before this day is done!’

‘Aye, well, it might be an idea, at that, sir,’ Sam said, thankful for the opportunity presented. 

‘You rarely wear one, Sam.’ It was not quite a question.

‘No.’ Sam paused, then confessed, with embarrassment at his own foolish vanity, ‘that’s because I look stupid in them, too!’ He caught Frodo's eye as he said it, and they laughed suddenly at each other and themselves. 

‘And talking of looking stupid, sir…’

Next to hand was a sheeted-off enclosure, on the outside of which hung a couple of small mirrors – a tantalising sample of the delights to be found within, whence sounded hoots of disbelief coupled with guffaws and giggles of delight. Sam stared at his own face in one of them - almost unrecognisable with his hair extended three times as high above his head as it should be, and his chin disappearing so far downward it seemed likely to reach his toes. In the other, Frodo's elegant features swirled all together to meet at centre, where his lips still showed unaccountably clear, as rosily perfect as ever. Smiling already, they paid for entrance to a wide area busy with hobbits gesturing, hobbits posing and hobbits laughing helplessly before the full-length mirrors lined with care around the cloth walls.

Looking glass was always difficult to set true – the bigger, the harder it became - and the many large failures possessed a plethora of weird and wonderful ways in which to distort any hobbit who might look in therein. A quick-witted but unsung member of the GAFFS committee had long ago appreciated the amusement offered by such cast-offs, and promptly disbursed funds to purchase a set of such mirrors, the more creatively flawed the better.

When Sam stood before the first, it dwindled him away to a thin streak up the centre of the glass; he’d to stick his arms out sideways and become a letter T to be sure he was there at all. When Frodo tried, he vanished almost completely; bending at the waist brought his upper body back into view, when he resembled nothing so much as a cheerful puppet angling upward from a broken stick. Next along was one that seemed to play havoc only with the lay of your middle regions and, Sam thought now, it were telling an unfair tale of him - generally true when he were around Frodo maybe, but not right then. Leastways, it _hadn’t_ been, till he thought about it. For propriety’s sake amid such a throng, he didn’t like to wait and see what it might make of Frodo, but moved hastily on, only to see his body dwindle to a smeared border along the base of this one's frame, though his head stayed right up at the top; joining the two, he'd a neck like one of those blotched creatures in a picture Mr Bilbo had shown him once, that lived long and far away and found their food up in the treetops.

In the next, he was fatter even than Will Dumpling, but with less than half his height - Mayor Whitfoot, Sam corrected himself. No matter that every grown hobbit Sam had ever heard speak of Will had at some point referred to him by his nickname, they’d always gone on to drum it into Sam that he should never even think it or he’d find himself saying it at most inappropriate moments. (As exemplified always by the tale – indeed, the awful warning - of Mistress Lobelia, of all hobbits, who had slipped up when inviting His Worship to step onto the podium in order to declare open an exhibition of works from the Bywater Ladies Guild of Knitters, Tatters and Crochet-lovers. Everyone – including the Mayor himself - would have been willing to ignore her mistake; her folly lay in trying to pretend it an affectionate naming, for that fooled no-one.)

Yet another mirror gave him a head shaped like the biggest fishbowl Sam had ever seen. Eyes goggling out as if he were the fish, nose flattened to an indistinguishable blob, he’d no body to speak of at all, only legs like tremulous willow saplings that sprouted from beneath his non-existent chin. They looked to go on for ever, scarce capable of supporting so impressive a crown, and wavering so unsteadily to and fro, merely to the rhythm of Sam’s breathing, that it were a wonder that bowl, fish and all didn’t end up splashed all across the grass here at his feet. This one took and redoubled Frodo's blue, leaving no room at all for face so that each spindly leg had its own eye, and might have been about to wander off alone - a tall and limber stick pin set with the sparkle of pure sapphire.

They quickly remembered that ducking and dodging actually intensified the absurdity. A second round of the mirrors was needed to explore the fact more fully, all the while dodging the many other hobbits in stitches at their own perceived peculiarities. Each effect was at least as grotesque on Frodo as on Sam himself (though Sam thought he might have the edge in the enlarging stakes) and just as funny - but that _was_ still Frodo there. The impossibly wide hobbit, the one that appeared to walk in three separate sections, the one whose limbs and features melted down the glass like butter in the sun, even the one that was little more than a pair of eyes on stalks - they were all his Frodo, still his Frodo, for Sam would love him no matter what he looked like; the _who_ of Frodo was far more than his outward seeming.

When they had laughed enough – Sam’s Gaffer would have said more than were good for a body; when Sam pointed it out, Frodo asked _which_ body, a sweep of his arm indicating the many different ones they’d just been seen to own, which set them off again – when they had laughed enough to be breathless, they returned to the aisle, to take in more of what was here to be seen.

Sam could perhaps have done without the bodger’s pitch being the next at which Frodo wished to pause and watch the workings of the makeshift pole lathe - a construction so basic and so easily knocked together, yet so vital to this task. Aldy was well occupied, though, his dad keeping him at least a part the day to show off his expertise with lathe and chisel. Cotmore senior was doing brisk sales in the finished legs and spindles that folk needed to knock together their own chairs or maybe mend those already in the family; and he weren’t above selling spare handles for spades and forks and the like, neither. Sam couldn’t help but be glad that Aldy were too busy for more than a swiftly nodded greeting above the heads of a group of hobbits who watched with interest as a sturdy foot pedalled power to turn the wood that spun before his chisels. He were just too close a reminder of last night’s doings and of Sam being, somehow and against his will, at odds with Frodo when he’d never meant to be. Today was somehow so completely different that he’d almost managed to forget his worry over Frodo, in some way or another, leaving him bereft. 

He shook off the memory with their arrival at the roper’s booth. Unfortunately – from the family point of view if not the financial - there seemed to be a steady flow of custom, and he could borrow only a few moments of Hamson’s time to hug his brother and wish for him and his intended all the best in their future life together. But he couldn’t be truly sorry when Anson called over a greeting in calling Ham away to help deal with the growing queue. Though at the lightest and least regarded end of their trade, string bags were ever a staple of Show sales, for no hobbit ever seemed to bring along more than one, and every hobbit bought more than would fill one bag alone; and they were far cheaper to buy than baskets.

Anson’s call proved Sam’s reprieve; for Ham, with a generosity Sam had begun to suspect of all those happy in their own mating, had asked a question or two that Sam couldn’t rightly answer, not with Frodo there and hearing every word after his own polite hello to Ham. All Sam could do was to avoid squirming too obviously through an evasive farewell and move onward, feigning a calm he couldn’t feel with Frodo’s eyes upon him still.

The deeply satisfying aroma of well-tanned leather stole forth around them now, for they had arrived amongst the stands and booths of saddler, harness maker and other workers of fine leather goods. The latter tooled containers for hobbitkind, from handbags to wallets, from casings for hip flasks to knife-sheaths and many an excellent thing besides, while the former were busier hobbits still. For, though neither Frodo nor Sam might have as much interest in the care and breeding, raising and training of quality bloodstock as, say, Roddy Underwood, there were plenty in the Shire who had. Great sums were expended on equine feeding, apparel and equipment, and it paid those whose business was in any way related to the invaluable, ubiquitous pony to be represented here: feed merchant, carriage-maker and all. Content to make only the occasional sale, they knew that regular customers would call for a sitdown and a chat, and a look at whatever was on display, secure in the knowledge that whatever might be required would be made, mended or mixed to measure, and delivered home at a time of their choosing. 

The end of this aisle was near, at last; the morning had worn away most pleasurably and the crowds of hobbits had begun subtly to thin, as thoughts and steps tended now toward the refreshment tent or wherever generously-filled picnic baskets lay in shade, awaiting dedicated attention. Sam’s stomach was beginning to hint quietly that he should embark upon just such a course of action, but there must surely be time for one more diversion? For here was the Mighty Striker – its echoing _Ding!_ a challenge to every hobbit with any pride at all in his muscular strength. Braced tight by ropes to either side, the colourful backboard stretched far above their heads, recording every step of its vast height until the elusive bell was reached at last.

‘Come on, Sam – I know I’m no good at it, but you could ring the bell easily if you tried! I saw you the other afternoon wielding that sledge, and this game is simply made for you!’

Sam brimmed with pride that Frodo should have such confidence in him - and more at the thought that he might actually have spared Sam the odd glance when he’d been so busy minding Matt Marchbanks and the GAFFS funds. But he would not agree with so careless an assessment of Frodo’s own powers.

‘I’m sure _you_ could, sir, if…’ He paused, wondering if this might truly be a step too far.

‘If what, Sam? Whatever you propose, I'll try it!’ The mischief in Frodo’s smile, the way he cocked his head awaiting Sam’s reply, were a challenge in themselves to every ounce of propriety Sam had ever had.

‘Well, I were thinking, sir,’ Sam said, looking down quickly, refusing the dare that couldn't _really_ be what he thought it, could it? He cleared his throat hastily and added, ‘P’raps if you were to imagine bringing that great hammer to bear on someone you thought could do with a little lesson a’teaching him…’ He left completely open the question of who might best fit such a thought, but being that there was so little love lost between Frodo and his cousin Lotho, maybe he might just take the hint?

‘Right!’ 

A fleetingly puzzled look gave way to a deliciously wicked a grin that proved Sam’s suggestion to be well and truly adopted. It might also have proved his complete undoing, had he not looked away again, right sharpish, leaving Frodo to pay over his penny and take up the hammer. 

He hefted it competently, if not easily, but hadn’t quite the feel of it, before attempting a strike. His first try almost went astray, scarcely grazing the target, and the arrow bounced only feebly at the bottom of the scale.

‘Drat! I need better aim, as well as bigger muscles!’

‘Just keep your eyes on what you’re intending to hit, sir, and the blow will follow,’ Sam advised, regaining his composure in his concern that Frodo should do justice to himself.

For his second turn, Frodo kept his eyes fixed and the hit was true enough, though the arrow travelled only halfway up the board. With another of those unsettling smiles, Frodo nodded his thanks for the success of Sam's tip.

‘Third time pays for all, sir!’ Sam encouraged now, and Frodo set his jaw. 

Shirt straining over every muscle and tendon in his back and arms, thighs taut with effort, he raised the heavy hammer high and brought it crashing down to a great _Whuff!_ of air from his lungs. And if he failed once more to ring the bell, this time the marker rose to a more than respectable height, missing by not much at all.

Sam applauded loudly, in a burst of love for and pride in his Frodo. ‘I’m sure if you had another go, sir—’

‘If I had another go, Sam,’ Frodo said frankly, between panting breaths, ‘I should probably spend the better part of the next month flat on my back, in a great deal of pain! Accepting a challenge is one thing – knowing your own limitations a far more sensible one. It’s your turn, Sam, and you _will_ ring it!’

With Frodo showing such faith in him, Sam was the more determined not to let him down, yet his first stroke failed in the attempt. Like Frodo, he struck before he had rightly judged the weight and balance of the mighty hammer, though the arrow did still climb a goodish way. He looked across apologetically, and Frodo’s answering smile – equal parts commiseration and encouragement – worked wonders. Sam rubbed his hands in a handy patch of sand for grip, and took up the hammer once more. He brought it down solidly and sent the striker racing for the bell - the hit valid enough to justify Frodo's enthusiastic cry of _'Yes!'_

To Sam’s ears, though, that _Ding!_ had sounded just a bit on the meek side; surely he could wrest a more convincing note from it than that? A quick spit, another rub of sand, legs set firm and braced just so, a quicker glance to Frodo for incentive, and he was ready. 

From the second the heavy sledge-head left the ground, it felt to be charmed – guided by a force Sam was only vaguely aware of providing. It soared freely into the air, its change of direction seeming almost a dance above his head, the descent smooth and easy and true. His blow slammed down onto the target so hard that he could almost swear the Showground shivered beneath his feet - and the bell echoed loud and long across the field. Several hobbits in the vicinity paused what they were doing to cheer - in jest, perhaps, but no matter. Sam’s only interest was in Frodo’s approval, in the pride he could see shine – for _him_ \- in Frodo’s admiring eyes.

‘Wonderful, Sam! I _knew_ you would do it!’

The prize with which he was presented – along with a mighty clap on the shoulder, for the attendant was as big and burly as ever a hobbit might rightly grow to be - was a tooled tobacco pouch. It was a handsome thing indeed, and just right for a tween who hadn’t yet one of his own. Up to now, Sam had kept the little leaf he could afford (carefully damped from time to time) in an old purse of Mam’s, well past its best now and truly in need of retiring from this usefulness if he wanted to keep it longer for its reminder of his gentle mother. As they walked away, he tucked the new one into his pocket, knowing the while that his real reward was simply having lived up to Frodo's faith in him.

He looked up then, to see Frodo's eyes still shining and his smile soft and proud. Sam’s breath vanished completely and he had no idea what he should say. There was a waiting quiet between them, despite the bustling by of many hobbits bent now on finding a meal as rapidly as possible and often quite vocal on the subject. A politely grateful smatter of applause floated across from the direction of the Show ring, signalling the conclusion of the morning’s judging, and heralding, it seemed, a luncheon langour over the whole area.

Into this lull broke a sudden bass growl from deep within Sam that seemed to find its answer in the more liquid tenor of Frodo’s inner gurgle. The tension, if any there had been, dissolved into laughter at their internal grumblings.

‘Come on,’ Frodo said, still grinning, ‘or Bilbo will save us nothing at all with which to pacify these importunate hunger pangs!’ 

Sam pulled a face evocative of considerable (if not entirely convincing) dismay, and they crossed in cheerful haste to where Bilbo could be seen, still concluding the niceties with the chief steward of the goat section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  A small glossary of [basketry](http://web.archive.org/web/20060616202925/http://www.englishwillowbaskets.co.uk/baskets.htm)  
> Dear, almost omniscient, ubiquitous Google! Scroll far down this page to know more of [tinkers](http://www.lazyka.com/linernotes/thesongs/Greeback.htm), as comprehensive as most else on offer, if seeming completely OT to begin with; and, more or less apropos, I would wager that you never knew the reason for [this naming](http://www.ibiblio.org/ais/sllpp3.htm) (Ctrl+F _mends_ is quicker than random scroll) – I certainly didn’t, or had forgotten if ever I did (nor that she should possess the _embonpoint - hélas, chère Ludivine!_ )  
> I admit that imagination alone claimed, via the unsung GAFFS committee member, the origin of the peculiar [images](http://www.mirrorresilvering.com/a_brief_history_of_mirrors.htm) seen by Frodo and Sam; it _may_ even be true. I can find no corroboration but will maintain my explanation until other proof is offered!  
>  Taming the [wheel](http://www.jhpottery.com/tutorial/center.htm) (though Piaget would have said, _I_ do _and I understand_ )  
> Go [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hat_Works) for insight into the professional hat trade as once it was.  (My father’s first job on leaving school was as a clerk in one of these factories; Christy's, I think.)   
> [Cobbett](http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0953832503/qid=1134860921/sr=1-2/ref=sr_1_2_2/202-8420347-3726245) is comprehensive on the making of straw hats as a cottage industry, but - inexplicably - the text doesn't seem to be available on line. **ETA** : [It is, now](http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=EOooAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=william+cobbett+cottage+economy&source=bl&ots=XGzoRmlfl6&sig=sn9m-ZkUXY6O0FF73iSVEMPxIQA&hl=en&ei=x--dTM_1O6aI4gbCq_24DQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ved=0CDkQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q&f=false)   
> Possibly a better link for the bodger's craft than I found before; his [pole lathe](http://web.archive.org/web/20050618235315/http://www.gallica.co.uk/celts/polelath.htm) is the most fascinating of primitive machines, and highly portable too, despite the impression given here; it includes a small video clip. This [diagram](http://web.archive.org/web/20041226084632/http://eredsul.org/earl_mike/FlamePeace/4_3.gif) may help with the lathe


	15. Show Day the Second - Noon and after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo has ideas, one of which is perhaps more enjoyable in the observance than the participation, though not without its compensations; Sam gets somewhat carried away, is granted a long-held wish, and discovers the hitherto unsuspected susceptibility of a portion of his anatomy...  
> Rating: Hm. _Not_ G?
> 
> With two wonderful gift illustrations, this chapter contains the scene that was the most fun to write

‘Ah, lads, there you are. Come along, come along! Today’s basket has all _my_ favourites in it instead of yours, and I warn you that I’m as hungry as Will D—Mr Mayor after an over-long council meeting, so you’ll need to be sharp set to keep up with me!’

Bilbo bustled them off then to the judges’ tent, where the day’s provisions awaited them. In no time at all he had the basket open on a handy bale of straw, with Frodo and Sam side by side on another, the plates on their laps full enough even to satisfy His Worship, had he seen fit to join them. The claim that only his own favourites had been packed proved to be completely false, for amongst the many other good things were marinated chicken legs, crisp on the outside and spicy within, just the way Frodo liked them best; and the individual lemon meringue tartlets, completely undamaged in the travelling, were every bit as sweet and as sharp as when Sam had first enjoyed them.

‘I noticed you talking to Til, earlier, Sam,’ Bilbo said conversationally, reaching into his breast pocket for his best away-from-home pipe, as lunch drew to its very satisfactory conclusion. ‘Just time for this, I think.’ 

Sam wasn’t often given the chance at a top quality tobacco - likely Old Toby, too, he thought with regret - but he shook his head with a polite, ‘Thank you, sir, no,’ when offered a fill from the Master’s pouch. He felt sufficiently guilty as it was; Mr Bilbo couldn’t have known what he and Til had talked of, surely? He so often seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and to know more about most things than you thought he might. But there surely had to be limits even to _Mr Bilbo_ ’s all-knowing, all-seeing gaze. Didn’t there?

‘It’s quite remarkable how much better he looks at the Show.’ Bilbo busied himself tamping down tobacco into his pipe after Frodo also refused his offer, then felt for matches.

‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled noncommittally. He turned his head very slightly to see Frodo peering back at him, his face unreadable. 

‘I expect that you two have seen it as well, have you? Yes, I thought you might.’ Mr Bilbo didn’t explain what he meant by this but went straight on, ‘Well, not so very remarkable, I suppose, really. Three years they’ve been keeping company, you know.’

Both of Frodo's eyebrows disappeared into his hair now, and Sam quickly transferred his gaze to his own toes. Mr Bilbo _knew_ about Til and Rafe? How could he, when Sam had only just noticed it himself, even though he’d known Til from both of them being little more than faunts, and had worked alongside him many a time since? But then, he supposed that Mr Bilbo had known and understood a lot more of life than he had; and anyway he might not have seen it even now if he hadn’t been so almighty aware of those who were in love, on account of the growing need for such a thing in himself. And if Mr Bilbo knew about _them…_

‘It’s a tricky problem,’ Bilbo pronounced, through a satisfying cloud of sweet-scented smoke (Sam had been correct – it _was_ Old Toby), ‘and high time somebody took a hand, for the way they’re going it’ll be the same in ten years or thirty. I, for one, can’t wait that long to see them happy. They’re a pair of good lads, and fidelity should have its reward.’ 

As Mr Bilbo paused for a few contemplative pulls on his pipe, Sam wondered whether he might think the same of a gardener’s lad who had loved steadfastly for several years now, and sighed quietly into the confines of the picnic basket. Since he hadn’t been allowed to help one bit with the getting out of their lunch, he was making himself useful now, collecting up the (very few) leftovers and packing away emptied dishes and plates.

‘Now, it’s quite obvious that Til can’t leave the farm - it really is in his blood, and quite apart from how disappointed his parents would be, I don’t believe he would ever be truly happy without his connection to the land and to livestock. You have only to see him at work – he’s a stockhobbit through and through, and I don’t think he could give up that life, even for love. It _is_ his life. 

'He’ll have to adopt one of his sisters’ lads as heir, of course, but there’ll be plenty to choose from by the look of it. Shame about the name – there have been Oldacres at Netherfold farm since time out of mind - but,’ he looked at Frodo, serious now, ‘name or no, a chosen heir can sometimes turn out even better than one born.’

Frodo returned his gaze steadily, and Sam saw, shining clear, the love and allegiance between them. Truly, Mr Bilbo’s choice had been for the best, setting aside whatever it might mean for Sam Gamgee.

Bilbo cleared his throat then, and concentrated on his pipe for a minute or two before he resumed, ‘So, it’s from Rafe’s side that we must address the matter.’ 

_We?_ Well, it wouldn't be betraying a confidence really, to report a simple fact, would it? ‘He can’t leave the Travelling, sir. I asked Til about it. That’s in _his_ blood, Til says - it's all Rafe knows. He’s never been used to being in one place more than a month or two at a time at most, and it seems that that’s the way he must be. He follows the old paths, just as his family has always done.’

‘All we need, then,’ said Bilbo, as if it were as easy as asking the grocer to weigh out three pounds of flour and an ounce or two of peppercorns, ‘is something which will allow plenty of travel but will keep bringing Rafe Boswell—’ Sam was surprised again, for Mr Bilbo even knew his right _name!_ ‘—back regularly to Hobbiton, and by the bye to Netherfold Farm.' 

He took a slow and measured puff of his pipe, ostensibly considering the matter carefully, but knowing full well that both lads were hanging on his lightest word. 'You know, Sam, I was thinking only last market day when I caught sight of your Gaffer and old Bill Swire - sat there jabbering away twenty to the dozen like a pair of old gammers, they were – I was thinking that Bill was getting on rather, to be hiking and carting the length and breadth of the Shire the way he does.’

Sam hid his grin rather better than Frodo managed to stifle a snort. Mr Bilbo were coming up to his one hundred and tenth birthday, and he thought _Bill Swire_ were getting on?

‘And,’ Bilbo went on, not without an almost-stern glance at Sam and a mock glare for Frodo, ‘it seemed to me that he ought to be on the lookout for a lad with a good head and heart and a strong back to take on the travelling - _with_ him, for a start, and maybe in a year or ten, _for_ him.’

'It sounds ideal,' Frodo said, 'but would Bill consider it? There are still many hobbits who don't really trust the Travellers, you know.'

'Oh, I think he might,' Bilbo said comfortably, 'if Rafe came on good recommendation. I've made quite a few enquiries since last year's Show, and I found no one with a bad word for him, but many a good. I think perhaps that later this afternoon would be an excellent time to have a quiet chat with Bill. Just put the proposition to him, you know. It may take a while for him to think his way around and through it, but I think we may expect a result before Yule.'

Sam smothered his protest, but Frodo said ‘Bilbo!’ at such a lengthy period of contemplation. 

Bilbo said, a little touchily, 'Yes, yes, I know - you young folk think these things can be sorted in a day or two or a week at most. Well, it doesn't work like that, and this is the best that I can do!'

'We know, really!' Frodo said, with a great hug for his uncle. 'And _you_ are the kindest, most thoughtful hobbit there ever has been in the whole of the Shire!' 

Bilbo harrumph'd, but Sam could see how pleased he was by Frodo's outburst. Once freed, he cleared his throat again, more loudly this time, then tapped the dottle from his pipe (thankfully not dropped in the hugging) with a somewhat decisive air. ‘Now, it's rather fortunate that you should think that,’ he said, 'for I have a little something I’d like you to do for _me_ , if you would. I’m sure it will be great fun, once you get underway.’

Frodo looked at Sam with a questioning brow.

Sam shrugged, discreetly. Hard by, on the bale next to the now re-packed lunch basket, lay the bundle left in the tent that morning by instruction – though why the Master would need those today, he couldn’t begin to guess. They might only be the patched and worn sheets he used to cover furniture and floors at Bag End when there were painting or white-washing to be done, but Sam knew there had to be far more to it than that.

As Bilbo opened them out, Sam noticed (for he’d not been able to resist having a good feel and then a peep at what had been so intriguing to his fingers as he carried it from the trap) that although there were still several towels, a pair of wooden spoons and more than a trace of rolled oats concealed within their folds, the large mixing bowl and the paper bag that had leaked from a tear in one corner were both missing. 

‘Oh! Bilbo, no!’ 

It seemed that Frodo had realised suddenly what, even in its depleted state, this odd collection signified, and what was the nature of the promised ‘fun’. He was plainly not too keen on the idea, whatever it may be. 

‘We’ll get stuck up to the skies!’

‘Well, yes, there is that, but think how much the little ones will enjoy it. You’ll be doing it for _them_!’ There was, though, a definite something in Mr Bilbo’s voice, Sam thought, that suggested the enjoyment might be as much his as anyone’s. ‘And it’s a nice warm day – you can sluice down afterwards and you’ll be dry in no time.’

‘But _why_?’ 

‘I simply thought that another small entertainment might be a nice idea. Not everyone wants to watch the stock being shown, and pockets are not bottomless for spending on Rides and sideshows, you know. It seemed a good idea to offer something completely free of charge and likely to be enjoyed by grownups and youngsters alike. In fact, I was so sure you would agree that I may have mentioned it to one or two people…’ 

Mr Bilbo’s words were all innocence, but Sam became immediately convinced that at least half the hobbits present on the Showground had been invited to attend whatever this promised treat may prove to be. 

‘I should hate to disappoint the poor little mites, for this would amuse them greatly, if only for a while,’ he finished, with a sad shake of his head at the thought of what they would miss should Frodo refuse; but Sam caught the hint of a hidden smile and remembered Frodo having once confided that guilt was one of Bilbo’s most effective weapons against him. 

‘Bilbo, you do remember _why_ this is so unpopular with the matrons of Buckland?’

‘Yes, yes, but just think how much you enjoyed watching it when _you_ were small. And,’ he added with a sly wink, ‘ _we_ don’t have to have breakfast in the same smial as the matrons afterwards! Don’t be such a wet blanket, Frodo! I’m sure _Sam_ will agree to take part.’ 

He turned expectantly to Sam who, though as yet unsure of the details, knew already that whatever it was _would_ happen, no matter what Frodo said. When the Master looked like that, few could stand against him.

‘What must I do, Mr Bilbo?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Nothing to it, Sam. You just feed each other porridge.’ Bilbo waved his hands airily. ‘As easy as that.’

Sam knew perfectly well from the look of disbelief on Frodo’s face that Mr Bilbo was not telling all, and awaited enlightenment.

‘Wearing blindfolds,’ said Frodo, tersely.

‘In fact,’ Bilbo swept in, possibly to divert any demur Sam might be about to voice, ‘I’ve thought of a nice little refinement they didn’t have at Brandy Hall – not the last that I saw of it, at any rate. Since porridge doesn’t show up very well on white - well, mostly white - sheets, when I called at the herbalist’s this morning for a pot of her finest salve, I got Mistress Earthy to mix up a tasty colouring for me.’ He fished a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket. Whatever it contained was quite the most lurid green that Sam had ever seen. Bilbo looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Of course, it won’t be quite so vivid once it’s mixed in. In fact…’

Sam realised the import of what Mr Bilbo had left unsaid, some time later, as he and Frodo sat facing each other over an upturned barrel. They were high on a flat-bed wagon that Bilbo had conjured up from somewhere, its floor also covered in the sheeting against the inevitable mess should a spoonful or two of the porridge go astray. Although the venue was of necessity a little way behind the busier areas of the Showground, Sam’s assessment of just how many folk had been advised of the event had not been so very far wrong. There seemed to be scores of youngsters, sitting cross-legged and watching the preparations with interest, their small faces clearly anticipating a great treat. Behind them sat or perched or stood as many or more grown hobbits; Sam wondered that they should be quite so nostalgic over what was to be a performance for the gratification of the small ones here, but resolved to do his best not to let his master down. 

Frodo’s eyes were already bound; his hair, shining with darkly coppered highlights, and his mouth and chin were all that could be seen of him, the rest (wearing only work trousers, in order to spare shirt and cleaner clothes) was generously swathed, as were Sam and the barrel, in much-mended dust sheets. Between them on their makeshift table lay the large bowl, now holding a thick, cold porridge tinted to a pale and sickly hue. It made Sam rather glad that he _would_ be wearing the blindfold Mr Bilbo was wrapping tightly about his head, when he had to eat it.

‘Now, listen to me, Sam - you’re not to hold back,’ Bilbo advised in a low tone, was laced with amusement. ‘You must forget that it’s Frodo and pretend he’s one of your brothers. Really let him have it!’ 

_Whatever does he mean by that? He’d not want me to_ choke _Mr Frodo, surely?_

But Sam had no more time to wonder, for Bilbo was announcing in a loud voice, which to Sam’s ear contained a good deal of suppressed amusement already, ‘And now, lads and lasses young and old, for your delectation and delight, may I present - A Blindfold Breakfast!’

The hum of childish voices quieted for a second, and then rose appreciatively as Sam groped outward with his spoon to where he thought the bowl should be. He was concentrating so hard on filling it suitably that it came as quite a surprise when something which must also be a wooden spoon was thrust suddenly into his face, dripping cool and messy down his chin. He opened his mouth, took in as much as he could and swallowed; it didn’t taste too bad - well-sweetened, at any rate - despite the fact that it had looked positively repulsive. A chorus of ‘Eeewww!’ and a storm of giggles erupted from below.

Once he had the measure of where to find the stuff, he considered his first few spoonfuls to be well on target. He was pretty sure that several had landed in (or at the least very near to) Frodo’s mouth, and he had dutifully opened his own to receive more offerings. But whilst his attempts continued, he thought, to collide with Frodo within the correct area at least, he soon became convinced that Frodo could not be applying the same amount of care. What had just landed on the top of his head, for example, surely had to be the result of deliberate intent rather than accident? That small but distinct ‘Splat!’ (to an ecstatic reception from the youngsters) definitely indicated something falling from a deliberate height.

‘Mr Frodo!’ he whispered across their table. ‘That’s not exactly fair! How is that _feeding_ me?’

‘Who said we were playing fair?’ Frodo whispered back, depositing another large dollop to slide stickily down the side of Sam’s face, not all of it diverted by his blindfold. And somehow, at that exact moment, the half-knot which was supposed to hold the sheet close in to Sam’s neck came loose, and a generous amount of cold porridge insinuated itself within, sliding stealthily down onto his bare chest. The lads and lasses might think it great fun to watch - judging by the racket they were making - but Sam decided now that the _un_ fair distribution of this slickly sticky ooze had become more a matter for retaliation than enjoyment.

‘We aren’t playing fair?’ He needed to get this straight, no misunderstanding at all, now that he realised the permission Mr Bilbo had given him.

‘Never!’ accompanied a spoonful to Sam’s left shoulder.

‘If you say so, sir!’ Battle had been declared, Mr Bilbo had already sanctioned his actions, and Sam intended to use all the weapons at his disposal. 

He stood up stealthily, face toward the crowd, and tapped a warning finger against his lips. There were many sharply indrawn ‘Oh!’s and not a few delighted shouts, muffled behind small hands, as the throng waited to see what Sam had in mind. He surveyed his quarry, for in truth he now had the very _un_ fair advantage of being able to see under the bottom edge of his blindfold. Picking up the bowl, he tucked it under his arm and had to quell a distinct chortle at the sight of Frodo, still digging away with his spoon on the barrel where the porridge ought still to have been. Giggles erupted on every side, but Sam just grinned and refused to feel any guilt.

Careful not to fall over his sheeting, he advanced stealthily around the makeshift table, dabbing Frodo with porridge left, right and centre, the while. Once at his side, Sam dropped a laden spoonful to slide down Frodo’s front, took the dish in both hands and inverted it over his head, settling it carefully to resemble an oversized hat with a glutinously mobile veil. The noise from the crowd was almost deafening, now, and quite drowned out Frodo’s shocked (and rather muffled) cry of ‘Samwise _Gamgee!_ ’ 

Sam freed his eyes, and swept a bow to his deeply appreciative audience, some of whom were rolling around on the ground in convulsions of mirth; many, adults included, appeared to be weeping with merriment. 

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the wagon bed, with an outraged and glaring Frodo sitting athwart him, bowl and blindfold gone and sheet askew round his neck and body. Sam had only seconds to appreciate their relative positions before his face was spattered with drips from Frodo’s impressively porridge-laden hair, as Frodo caught his hands and forced them down by his head, to a massive cheer from the onlookers.

[](http://photobucket.com)

'Evens?' Frodo demanded - and then for a second it seemed that he forgot where he was, for one hand came down, and his thumb felt almost like a caress as he gently wiped away the viscous green slime that was about to trickle into Sam’s left eye.

‘Evens!’ Sam called loudly, wanting the touch to go on for ever but only too aware of their surroundings; and Frodo blinked, and leapt up, pulling Sam with him, so they could both raise victorious arms and bow repeatedly to the laughing, cheering crowd. Calls for an encore were decisively ignored, and they stepped down from the wagon.

‘Well done, lads, well done!’ Bilbo ushered them around to where ewers of hot water stood on the wagon back, along with basins of cool, awaiting their preference. ‘Frodo—’ He was perfectly composed when he began to speak, but the slow slither of porridge, in fat and disgustingly-coloured globules, was too much for him once more, and his words dissolved into laughter.

Frodo attempted to squeeze the worst of the mess from his hair, all the while threatening his uncle with the most terrible retribution when he had time to think up something sufficiently awful. 

Sam simply stood stock-still, only too conscious at last of what he had just done. 

Frodo’s beautiful hair - darkness itself spun out into tumbled silken curls, whose destiny was to be bronzed by the sun or frosted cool under moonlight (not that Sam had ever given the matter much thought) - and what had he done to it? He’d only gone and turned it into these ropes of palely viscous green now dripping their sickly burden over Frodo’s shoulders. Sam was so mortified that he couldn’t properly appreciate the smooth skin of honeyed cream beneath the trails of vile mucus; and he had no idea where he could even begin to apologise.

When Frodo gave up his harangue at Bilbo’s iniquities and turned to him, Sam was ready to stumble from explanation through apology into complete self-abasement - until Frodo’s words cut through his haze of blame.

‘That was simply and utterly brilliant, Sam - you are a genius to think of it!’ He was smiling through the thickly clinging mix of hair and oatmeal, and Sam could scarcely believe it. ‘I’m sure that was never so exciting – or so funny – when I was a lad! Oh, I wish I could have seen it! And I should love to be present at a few breakfast tables where porridge is served in the near future to any little lad or lass who watched you today!’

‘But, Mr Frodo, I should never have—’

‘Oh, but Samwise, you really _should_ – it was most wonderful! Though I think I should like to be rid of it now. It’s amazingly chilling stuff, porridge, when it’s trickling down you.’ He appraised Sam’s own condition. ‘Well, I may not have been quite so _inspired_ , but I did manage to get just a little of my own back. Beforehand, as it were!’

Sam‘s thinner and more random layer of porridge was beginning to feel quite unpleasant – almost as though it were _setting_ on his skin - and Frodo was quite right about its temperature. Despite the sun, Sam shivered.

‘You wash it out of my hair, Sam, and I’ll do yours?’ 

The suggestion sent a shiver of a completely different kind through Sam, but he quelled it quickly and managed a nod. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Bilbo, sir, but I think Mr Frodo’s going to need more than them few jugfuls to get all that lot out.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with the bowser? Just stick your head under the tap, Frodo, and let Sam swish your hair around - that should do it.’

Frodo folded his arms as he glared at his uncle, somehow managing to look fierce even wearing a ridiculous coat of green slime. ‘There’s exactly one thing wrong with that, Bilbo. The water will be freezing!’

‘Not _freezing_ , Frodo, not on a day like today,’ Bilbo said, in an annoyingly reasonable tone. ‘Just a little cool, that’s all. And there’s plenty of warm there, for a proper wash, after the worst has gone. Get on with you!’ 

There being no point in arguing with Mr Bilbo once his mind was made up, Sam led the way to the nearby bowser. The ground beneath the tap was already saturated, of course, and becoming quite muddy. Frodo rolled up his trouser-legs and knelt carefully to one side, still grumbling imprecations. Sam took up his position at the other, more than a little overwhelmed by the sight of Frodo, half-naked and kneeling at his feet, despite the fact that any remotely similar fantasy he may have had, definitely had not taken place in broad daylight, with folk milling about just the other side of a wagon. Nor, of course, had Frodo been burdened by anything quite so unpleasant upon his hair and skin (nor even by trousers, though he might have shown a slight sheen of oil). 

There were, however, parts of Sam which refused to notice these minor differences, and which proceeded to react in their usual fashion. He ignored them as best he might – he’d had the practice, after all – and turned on the bowser’s tap, as Frodo bent low enough for the water to run through his hair. 

‘Aaah! Ohhh! Goodness, that’s cold!’ Frodo said, his voice muffled and liquid. ‘Be quick, Sam – please!’ 

Sam positioned himself closer, refusing further tempting parallels within his mind in view of Frodo’s distress. He realised at once that he was quite right about the temperature - Mr Bilbo had definitely been over-optimistic as to the heating powers of Wedmath warmth on so large a volume of water. Sam knew because it was dissolving lumps of porridge straight from Frodo’s head to splash across his own feet. He plunged his fingers into the sticky curl-and-oatmeal pudding and worked them gently but swiftly to and fro. Alternately squeezing and stroking, he dragged the sludge carefully towards the end of each strand and flicked it off, spreading every lock into a stream of clear water. 

At first Frodo muttered abuse of his uncle - half-formed and hurried threats of revenge voiced through gritted teeth - though these soon faded and he seemed to be shivering indeed. Sam thought he could feel the tension rise into his own fingers and he tried to massage the warmth of his love into Frodo's scalp. But as the mess thinned and was swept away, his concentration was stolen entirely by what flowed now beneath his hands. 

For here was the longed for night-dark silk; sheen newly glossed, it spilled its softly sinuous curtain to waver through the clear cold stream, swaying seductively about Sam’s wrists, swirling through his fingers in a dizzying drift of dusky caresses...

Sam swallowed, hard. But his trial was to get worse. 

Without warning, Frodo began to comb _his_ fingers through Sam’s foothair, where dribbles and streaks of porridge had dripped and lingered still – and Sam’s control was almost breached. 

He’d had no idea that a simple touch to his feet could possibly affect him in so intimate a way - this new and frisky tingle that that had started so unexpectedly as a sly skitter from toes to ankle and streaked up – _Oh!_ There, _yes!_ – to meet the arousal already risen so keenly.

‘No!’ he said, taking a quick step backwards. It sounded rather more forceful than he really meant it to, but he knew himself to be perilously close to the limit of the delights he could withstand before the inevitable occurred.

Frodo peered up at him, all hurt blue sparkle through the soft wash of black, and Sam rushed to say, ‘Can't have you catching cold, sir. You should get Mr Bilbo to pour some warm water over you, and then get dried, sir. I can do my feet and whatnot.’ 

‘But your hair too, Sam!’ Frodo protested, though he looked to be shivering in earnest as he rose carefully from amidst the muddy and now quite porridgy mire, to give knees and feet a quick swill under the tap before stepping away. He was squeezing excess water from his hair, and it was not only Sam’s fingers that twitched to the remembered texture. 

‘I’ll manage, sir – I’ve nowhere near as much on me as you have, and it’s not all…’ He gestured weakly at the runnels of watered porridge left on Frodo’s torso - discoloured smears marring perfection (noting, though he tried hard not to, that distinct traces of oat remained, caught invitingly on each darkly peaked nipple…) 

_Hang propriety!_ part of him insisted. _Get over there and lick it off!_

‘Quite right, Sam, so he should! I’ll see to Frodo, now - you get yourself cleaned up.’ Bilbo appeared as though he had heard his name – or Sam’s wayward thoughts. He took his nephew by the elbow and led him away. ‘Don’t forget there’s plenty of warm water for you too, when you’re done here,’ he called over his shoulder.

Sam took a steadying breath and turned back to the bowser, forcing himself to kneel – most prudently - by the tap. He swished his hair a few times through the chilling stream, and by the time that he had washed feet and knees, and sluiced away the worst of what had run down his neck, cold water had given him back his composure. He was able to take up Mr Bilbo’s offer of warm with scarcely a tremor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  Lest there be those who consider that I violate canon (in this respect, at least!):  
>  _After some time he felt for his pipe. It was not broken, and that was something. Then he felt for his pouch, and there was some tobacco in it, and that was something more. Then he felt for matches and he could not find any at all, and that shattered his hopes completely. Just as well for him, as he agreed when he came to his senses. Goodness knows what the striking of matches and the smell of tobacco would have brought on him out of dark holes in that horrible place._  
>  The Hobbit, chapter five - _Riddles in the Dark_  
>  Bowser, n. Forget pixellated game characters, a bowser is a large, horizontally cylindrical water tank, with wheels at either side and tap (faucet…) at the rear end, at about knee level; commonly used at agricultural shows (and the water tastes positively yucky). Somewhat like [this](http://www.emergencywaterservice.co.uk/images/tankering/bowser-4000litre.gif), but for use at the Show subtract all refinements and take it back in time to iron-hooped wooden wheels! That was what I saw when the incident in question took its place in the story - being what I was used to at shows. But when my beloved beta, Notabluemaia, read the chapter, her imagination invented a far more picturesque interpretation and she promptly drew for me the most wonderful picture thereof! (What I like the very best about it is the mischief in Frodo's face – I think he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing to Sam…)
> 
> The earlier illustration, capturing all the playfulness of the Breakfast, is by the very talented Aina Baggins. The watercolour original of this was a treasured birthday gift from my dear Frodosweetstuff.


	16. Show Day the Second - Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Took Family arrives after a slight delay and Sam does *not* lose his Frodo to a Took-lass, but discovers instead that three may indeed be company  
> Rating: Maybe A for Awwww? Depending, of course, on your interests. Possibly B for Boring, otherwise

It helped, of course, that Frodo was thoroughly swaddled in one towel and attempting to dry his hair with another. He was rather hampered in this by the small hobbit draped over his back, arms almost tight enough to choke in the simmering excitement of being at the Show.

Sam had wondered at the morning's Show-ground shortage of the Tooks of Great Smials. Master Peregrin, of course, must be left at home on the first day; he required far more watching than could be spared when produce and handicrafts rosettes were at stake, to say nothing of the showing of Lowland ponies, Mr Paladin’s pride and joy. But from quite early on this second day, you could usually count on hearing Pippin’s delighted squeal here and there, even when you couldn’t see him – and Sam hadn’t.

Returning a cheerful _Hello, Sam!_ politely, Sam swabbed at his own hair. Only a little way away – and close enough that Sam hurried back into his shirt, for Miss Pearl and Miss ’Nel were eyeing him, and giggling too - Mr Paladin and Mistress Eglantine were giving Mr Bilbo the account of their somewhat late arrival, hobbit love of a good story to the fore. It would have taken a far stronger one than Sam to ignore their tale; he knew what he was doing must count as ear-wigging, but he really couldn’t help it, for their rendition was almost a practised duet already.

'Everything was well in hand,’ Mr Paladin explained. ‘Just a few last minute arrangements to make and the carriage to bring round to the door.’

‘I thought it rather unusual that he should be late for breakfast, today of all days…’ The Mistress’s tone gave an inevitability to what was to follow, Sam thought.

‘… almost ready to leave, there was such a noise and a flurry where they were gathering in the hall…’ 

‘… babble of voices and a shriek went up just as Pippin rushed in, wanting something to eat…’

‘… my only son - totally covered in bright red spots - face, arms, chest - everywhere…’ 

‘… _every_ where and they weren’t there when I bathed him - it had come on so _fast_ …’

‘… first thing obviously was to fetch back those who had already set off…’ 

‘… Nanny Bunce whisked him off before I could get a proper look …’

‘… so many folk had left at first light to make the most of…’ 

‘… chance to minister once more to her precious lamb…’

‘… he saddled up quickly he might just catch them…’

‘… echoing complaint at being put back to bed…’

‘… a disappointment indeed, for everyone…’ 

‘… then Cook brought out her son Perdy…’

‘… looked worse by far than Peregrin…’ 

‘… and oozingly, _luridly_ yellow…’

‘… positively pustulant…’ 

‘… quarantine…’ 

‘… contagion…’

‘… epidemic…’ 

‘Shire-wide!’

They were both quite breathless by the time that Mistress Eglantine declared, ‘And I didn’t even know he _had_ a box of paints!’

Sam realised that Mr Bilbo looked a trifle uncomfortable at this point- but he surely couldn’t be held responsible for what a hobbit lad chose to do with gifts he was given, could he? Sam could only wonder that this hadn’t happened sooner – it was, after all, a week or three since Bilbo had visited the Smials.

Pippin was confiding his side of the tale to Frodo, with more emphasis on the indignity of being reclaimed by Nanny for the nursery he was gradually escaping. ‘It was Perdy’s idea, really,’ he sounded a trifle envious, ‘but I thought we should _both_ get our bottoms spanked and be left behind, when Papa sent us to stand in the study. There were a lot of funny noises, then we were taken out and scrubbed _again_ ,’ his complaint was that of every lad ever made to wash more than once in the day, ‘and then everyone was smiling and rushing about because they were going to be so late, and we were allowed to come, too.’ Pippin’s brow furrowed in puzzlement at the obscure behaviour of grownups.

‘I can't wait to go on the Rides, Frodo, 'cause all we've really done yet is have lunch, and then we came to watch you and Sam and the porridge - I wish breakfast at home could be like that!’

‘Pippin, you mustn’t—’

‘What did it feel like, Frodo?’

‘Sort of cold and sticky and—’

‘Crawly down your neck, like that?’ He stalked small fingers over Frodo's skin. 

Frodo squirmed away and laughed, wriggling into his shirt. ‘Just like that!’

‘You looked so funny with the bowl in your head! Why did Sam do that?’

‘Spur of the moment,’ Frodo said, at the same time as Sam said, ‘Well, Master Pippin, we was just—’

‘But _why_ did you, Sam? Don’t you like him?’

‘No, I—’ Sam had to clamp down quickly on the unguarded reply, on the truth that so nearly escaped him. _No, I love him_ wouldn’t be right, to so small a child, let alone that Frodo was right there, and Mr Bilbo and a troupe of Tooks within earshot. Luckily, Pippin enjoyed questions more than waiting for answers from tongue-tied gardeners.

‘I’ve never had green porridge - what did it taste like?’

Frodo paused his shirt-buttoning. ‘Like cold porridge – perhaps a little sweeter. It certainly didn’t _taste_ green!’ 

‘Could I try some?’

‘I don’t think you’d like it much, cold, and anyway, what’s left isn’t fit to—’ 

‘I’m going to ask Cook to make _our_ porridge green!’ Sam could tell what was coming from the gleam in Pippin's eyes.

‘I don’t really think Aunt—’ 

‘Frodo, would Vinca be _very_ cross, should you think, if—’

‘Pippin! You are not _ever_ to do that at home!’

‘Sam did it,’ Pippin said in an aggrieved tone, ‘and it was _funny_.’

‘Yes, well, Sam was—was—’

‘Was what, Frodo?’

‘He was—um—’

‘I were showing everybody just why it’s such a very naughty thing to do, Master Pippin, and why they shouldn’t ever do such a thing to _any_ one now they’ve seen what a nasty mess it made of Mr Frodo.’

‘Exactly!’ Frodo cast a grateful glance to Sam. ‘And anyway, _big_ boys don’t do things like that to their sisters.’

‘So Sam could do it because he isn’t your sister?’

Frodo didn’t laugh, as Sam thought he might. Instead, attention all on straightening his braces, he said quietly, ‘No, Pippin. Sam could do it because he’s my friend. Best friends can do all sorts of things with each other, and neither of them ever minds.’ 

Something squeezed tight within Sam’s chest, rejoicing that Frodo counted him a best friend; he quelled the tiny, rebellious part of him that hurt to be no more than that.

‘Frodo?’ Bilbo was gesturing to him to join a discussion which involved, Sam had gathered from snatches caught between Pippin’s questions, the firming of tentative plans for an overnight stay at Bag End by Mr Paladin, Mistress Eglantine and their offspring. This was no real surprise to Sam, since he had also made up the seldom-used truckle bed in the second best bedroom on Sterday; what _was_ surprising was that Mr Bilbo should think to keep Pippin out of too much trouble without Frodo there to entertain him.

 _Oh!_

Frodo must also be returning home for the night. 

Sam swallowed his disappointment and busied himself clearing away the messy remains of the breakfast, washing the dish and spoons and returning bowls and ewers to the refreshment tent. He scraped and shook congealed porridge from the dust sheets, spreading them and the towels over the wagon sides to dry. He lingered then, hitching himself up onto the wagon bed - within earshot should Mr Bilbo call him, but wondering if he didn’t ought to take himself off entirely; not wanting to leave if he didn’t have to, but knowing that his time alone at the Show with Frodo must end here. 

He sighed, and allowed himself the comfort of daydream, closing his eyes the better to see Frodo’s creamy skin, completely free of its disfiguring green mantle; the better to remember Frodo’s gentle touch halting the trickle of porridge toward his eye; Frodo’s hair flowing as watered silk through his hands; Frodo's fingers riffling his foot hair with the unexpected result that was threatening to recur right now— 

It was stopped short by the sudden realisation that the Great Smials contingent _had_ arrived - and that they had probably brought with them the prettily lilting Took-lass who was just waiting to claim his borrowed Frodo. It meant nothing that only the Family were here as yet; there must be more plans afoot than the night’s visit to Bag End, to need discussion at such length.

His eyes shot open – to find Frodo and Pippin not three feet in front of him, Frodo with a grin at having caught him dozing, Pippin’s pout telling quite clearly that he had just been thwarted of a particularly loud _Boo!_ Beyond them were the backs of Mr Bilbo and the elder Tooks, already a fair step toward the refreshment tent; the lasses vanished into the crowd even as Sam looked.

Frodo nudged Pippin into a question. ‘Please, Sam, may I go round the Show with you and Frodo?’ The effect was somewhat marred by a loud whisper of, ‘Was that polite enough?’

Frodo laughed. ‘Just about! You won’t mind if he joins us, will you Sam?’

Sam stuttered ‘N-not at all, sir.’ He would have volunteered to accompany Mistress Lobelia through the Showground, for the smile that Frodo gave him then. And the way that Frodo had put it, Master Pippin would be joining _them_ , rather than Sam being the one to be invited along too, which was wholly wonderful but so like his Frodo.

‘Come _on_!’ Pippin said, dragging his cousin by the hand, politeness obviously done for the day. ‘Merry-go-round first!’

‘Very well. Sam and I haven’t had a turn yet, either, and we were just thinking of it, weren’t we Sam?’

‘Yessir.’ Sam’s thoughts in that regard had actually tended rather toward Daisy’s hints of forbidden temptation than the excitement Pippin craved, but a Ride was a Ride and not to be sneezed at. 

More hobbits than ever seemed to have the same idea, and the queue snaked past many a stall. These pitches were chosen with intent, customers being more easily tempted when held temporarily captive. Before they reached the Ride itself, all three were clutching a selection of items that Pippin, overcome by a munificence showered on him by his papa, had been unable to resist. 

He’d need far more practice with his whip-and-top though, than was possible on the limited stretch of flagstone the vendor had thoughtfully brought along to encourage purchase. Moreover, based on what had happened there, Sam could foresee trouble ahead, back at the Smials, and was only thankful that it would then be someone else’s problem. A brightly coloured pinwheel lacked breeze sufficient to spin it longer, for even Sam’s lungs gave out at last; time would tell, but he was convinced that Pippin would lose it to the speeding rush of the Merry-go-round. The silver-paper-covered ball still bounced repetitively on its elastic string but had lost its charm when Frodo forbade its use as a weapon; it was filled, Sam was to discover extensively when curiosity got the better of Pippin, with sawdust. 

A small collection of alleys - mostly clays but with a prize or two in colour-swirled glass - must stay in their drawstring bag, needing time and room to play as they did; though perhaps not quite so much as the cup-and-ball set, with which Pippin briefly endangered the eyesight if not the continued consciousness of other hobbits in the line. Sam acknowledged (to himself if not aloud) that his fingers itched to have a go and see if he retained his old skill at the game, but he would not gainsay Frodo's prohibition on its use in such close quarters. The hand puppet, though, _had_ been a good idea. With it, Frodo kept his cousin amused far longer than Sam would have reckoned - or could have hoped, in competition as it was with a penny whistle of positively piercing tone. By the time that they stood ready to board the rapidly emptying Merry-go-round, Sam found himself to be actually in _need_ of time to sit and rest.

The crowd surged forward, the polite queue breaking into an extended wave of hobbits all intent upon one thing. Pippin slipped Frodo's hand and made a swift lunge between a pair of tweens jostling for who should lay claim to an outside pony. He was aboard before either of them realised that they had lost their prize: a fine piebald, its patching somewhat erratically daubed, as though the artist had truly enjoyed his lunchtime ale that day. Saddle and reins were both scarlet – the one carved and coloured, the other of well-worn leather. In all he made a magnificent beast for any rider, and Pippin was most annoyed to discover that he must ride tandem, a scowl beginning to form until Frodo pointed out how very many hobbits would be left ride-less this turn even if everyone doubled up. 

Sam’s mount was one row behind and one in from the edge: a soberly painted bay with trappings of rich blue, gilded liberally as if to make up for so plain a body colour. He leaned down suddenly, and offered his hand, for there, almost swamped in the press of hobbits still hoping to find a vacant pony, was a very small lad who looked rather familiar. He grasped hold without a second thought, and in one smooth movement, was settled before Sam in the saddle.

‘Ranly, isn’t it?’

The lad nodded, thrust his farthing at Sam, and gathered the reins in one hand, threading the other into the shaggy mane, wriggling his impatience for the Ride to begin. 

‘Where’s your sister, Ranly? Or your brothers?’

Ranly shrugged to indicate the supreme irrelevance of such questions when he was about to embark on a thrilling gallop aboard a fiery steed – even if he did have to share it with The Interfering Hobbit. Sam could remember exactly how excited he had been at that age, though the hobbit who had given him that first Galloper Ride was now doing the same for Pippin. The excitement he’d felt then was Ranly’s excitement now - an entirely different kind to what he would feel could he but ride with Frodo once again...

As the Ride quickened to its fullest speed, the wind of their going whipped at hair and clothes - and at the paper sails of Pippin’s pinwheel, whirling it to a colourless blur before sweeping it from his hand just as Sam had predicted. Pippin whooped and gee’d up his pony to go faster, chattering incessantly the while. Ranly, though, was a silent rider, quivering with the intensity of this marvellous experience but bottling it all inside. Snatches of Pippin’s monologue whisked back to Sam in the speed of their going, but they registered no real sense after Frodo had turned around to smile at him – a smile that said this was even better for sharing it with the two young lads they were holding safe. Maybe it said, too, that Sam was not the only one to remember that long ago Ride (though he’d not be wishing, as Sam was, to share his pony with a far bigger lad, and never mind what Daisy may have said at sight of them).

Ranly sat his pony until the carousel stopped completely, sliding from the bay’s back only reluctantly. He gave Sam a smile and almost said something (Sam suspected an imminent _Thank you_ ) but then a sisterly voice called, ‘Ranly! Come _here_!’ and Sam was not in the least surprised to see the lad slither between the legs of the crowd and disappear without a backward glance. 

Sam ducked his head and hurried after Frodo, who was already advising Pippin of the secret of the Joywheel. After three turns, Pippin was in much the same state as poor Lester had been, but proud of the fact that he had been last-but-one to fall off on the third. Sam accompanied him for two before admitting defeat, whilst Frodo freely confessed that he’d prefer not to risk such queasiness again, and went instead to hold places in line for them at the swing-boats. His insides quickly recovering, with the enviable facility of the young, Pippin pulled rope with Frodo against Sam; he was not in the least interested in _drifting_ anywhere, and there was little energy to spare to remembrance anyway, for Pippin wanted speed and height, and speed and height they gave him. The delight in his voice was well worth the effort and the strain on their muscles.

Sam had never done this before, had never escorted a much smaller hobbit around the Show. He was surprised at just how much Pippin’s enjoyment of everything they did made _him_ see and enjoy it afresh, too. Keeping so close an eye on him as was needed became a small price to pay. Pippin was interested in everything, had at least one go at nearly every game, was unworried by his lack of success at most of them and immensely grateful for any small prize that came his way. When they visited the mirrors, he was completely fascinated by the convoluted copies of themselves and his laughter was every bit as contagious as his spots had not been.

Once out of the straw-bale enclosure, he made a beeline for a stall that Sam and Frodo had unaccountably passed by, the day before. Mistress Sandbrook was acknowledged to be the most skilled amongst a guild of confectioners dedicated to the art of making sweets to please both eye and palate - and oh, the choice that she spread here so generously! 

There were jars of acid drops to clench up your mouth and suck your cheeks in afore you even knew you were doing it; and sherbet lemons - just as sour, but with that sweetly shocking fizz when you broke though their bright crisp shells to the powder within. Trays of fluffy marshmallow, that Mam had liked so much, rolled and sliced into fat warm cushions of pink or white, set next to Gaffer’s favourite cough candy: rough-cut squares with pale, crumbly edges and a sweet-sharp, piercing taste. Boxes of aniseed balls all in brown that came off on your fingers when you’d licked them; and their huge cousins, the gobstoppers, whose sucking you’d to pause so often, taking them out to inspect their rainbow colour changes till at last they were resolutely white and disappointing to the eye (though the taste stayed good right to the end). More jars – of pear drops, parti-coloured red and yellow, briskly sugar-coated on the tongue and melting to the summer smell and sweetness of the ripest pears; luscious berry flavours in mouth-watering pastilles or glossy fruitdrops, slick in their motley. A tall jar showed off the spiralled canes of barley sugar to hold in your hand and suck until their twistiness was smoothed all away and you crunched the gold that even _felt_ sunny inside your mouth. 

The freshness of mint was bottled here too, in many guises – softly fondant circles, or cubes like pale clear ice; chewy white spearmints or stripy, sharp-edged humbugs. And there was liquorice in all its various shapes, laid flat in boxes for temptation and display: chubby pipes for pretend-smoking, solid black sticks, or flat and stretchy straps; pinwheels to eat from the outside, unrolling till you reached the comfit in the centre; and the flat little coins sold by the quarter, each thumb-printed by its maker, that suited grownups who kept a liking for the flavour. More exciting were the sherbet fountains with a liquorice straw to suck through, even though it clogged so soon and you’d to lick the sweetness from it then, instead of sucking so hard that the powder shot suddenly up your nose and made you cough and sneeze at once. 

A shiny little hammer lay always to hand by the tin trays of hard and creamy caramel or cinder toffee, waiting to be tapped into bite-sized chunks, weighed carefully into paper bags and sealed with that deftly knowing twist. Half the fun of purchase was watching the old hobbit dame as she dipped her little tin shovel deliberately into the delicacy of your choice - trickling the contents ever more slowly into the scale pan, until the last few sweets seemed to poise for ever on the edge before dropping to your gain - then emptying the pan into a paper cone (or a square bag for those affluent enough for more than a ha’porth.) 

Each of them spent rather more pence than he intended and came away with full pockets, savouring his flavour of choice; Sam chewing on cinder toffee, Frodo wincing at lemon sharpness, and Pippin already wearing rather more evidence of his sherbet than might have been thought possible - with the string tail of a sugar mouse dangling mournfully as he bit off its head. Frodo had persuaded him at last to save the gobstopper until he returned to The Smials, when he would have someone with whom to share and compare its colours.

Another diversion Frodo and Sam had yet to enjoy this year was concealed within a second sheeted area, a propped board showing just a few of the animal wonders to be seen within. Pippin was dancing his excitement with never a thought for possible danger as he waited for Frodo to pay their entry fee. Sam hoped but rather doubted that his solemn assurance - that he would not stray from their sight - might be entirely relied upon.

No matter how many times you saw them, a fascination remained with creatures that were so very different from those to be found within the Shire. Here the animals were bigger or brighter, not a few of them dangerous, all having the attraction of the unfamiliar. You simply _had_ to come back, year on year, if only to convince yourself that your memory weren’t playing tricks on you since last time. 

The hooded snake – often disappointingly somnolent when Sam had visited in the past - reared up now within its cage, tongue flickering in time to the portentous sway of its body. So threatening, compared with the slow worm he sometimes found regarding him sleepily from the warmth of the compost heap – or even with the adder, poisonous if its bite weren’t treated right quick, though rarely seen and thankfully so; mostly in open places and on warmer, sandier soils than obtained around Hobbiton. This hooded kind could kill a hobbit in seconds, he’d heard, and it didn’t look shy or retiring neither, but rather quarrelsome. He remembered with relief also being told that it had had its poison removed in some way, when it had been not much more than worm-size. He’d not have liked to see anyone to try it now, he thought, for the thing were a good bit longer than most hobbits were tall. The other snakes here, in varying sizes, colours and patterns, weren’t poisonous at all, he understood, though there were one or two as might catch you in their coils all unawares and squeeze the breath right out of you, if you weren’t awake to such twisty wiles. 

They stood to watch the ponderous movement of a huge tortoise as it trundled intently around the edge of its straw bale enclosure. It was bigger, even, than the platter up at Bag End that was used for serving the whole sucking pig at Yule. Somehow Sam was just the quicker to stop Pippin from falling into the makeshift pen when he leaned too far, wanting to knock on the poor thing’s shell ‘to see what it sounds like’. It probably had more than enough of that over the days of the Show, he explained to the aggrieved lad, rapping one knuckle firmly on his head to show how irritating it must become. Whatever the creature’s feelings in the matter, its feet were furnished with long and pointed claws likely to inflict a fair bit of damage on any small hobbit they encountered, by accident or no. Sam blushed and looked away at Frodo’s warm smile of thanks for the timely rescue and admonition of his cousin. 

A new attraction, which awed Pippin into a silence longer than Sam could ever remember, was a smooth brown cat with ears of black - long, hairy tufts waving high above their tips. Behind sturdy bars - and a roped-off space too, for good measure - it yawned and stretched, so very like Sam’s favourite tabby that kept the mice from his stored seed in the shed up at Bag End. It had the same habit too, as it licked one paw, of tugging for a moment at some morsel caught beneath a claw, exactly as Whisper did in tidying up after a meal. She was no longer the wisp of a starveling she had once been – her rotundity (even when no longer in kitten) a matter of pride for Sam – but she would be tiny indeed in face of such a magnificent creature. For _this_ cat’s head reached above Sam’s waist and he wondered very much at the careless petting its guardian reached to give it now. Such animals were commonly used for hunting in their own far off land, the Traveller said, and he had hunted this one often and successfully. Out in the wilder places of the Shire and only for rabbits and birds and the like, he added hastily when adult hobbits all around frowned at the thought of so huge a predator loose where livestock – and worse still, the wide-eyed youngsters now watching this fascinatingly large pussycat, not a few pleading to stroke it – might become prey. 

And she was not only bigger but far more vocal than Whisper, whose _miaou_ was almost soundless, her purr rather rusty, and her most endearing trait the peremptory little _Prrp!_ she gave when wanting attention. She could snarl and spit with the best of them when needed, though – Sam had seen her face down Farmer Wembdon’s dog a time or two from the vantage point of a wall. _This_ cat seemed to hiss or purr continously – with the occasional growl thrown in - at different pitches; like an over-filled kettle on the stove, and with as little hostile intent, it seemed. The way her Traveller hissed and chirruped back at her, they made Sam feel to be left out of a private conversation.

The same blue-grey parrot was there, chattering away from its perch – as bright, friendly and talkative as Sam recalled from days when he had been one of the enthralled youngsters grouped around it, asking it questions, _ooh_ ing and giggling when the answers were or were not at all appropriate. But further along was another bird, a new one - larger, louder and with plumage that was unbelievably multi-coloured. It too could talk, though its utterances were not the cheerful if undirected offerings of its drabber relative. Its lasting appeal seemed mainly to older hobbits, and at first Sam wondered why this should be, when it was so brightly feathered. But this bird spoke at its own behest or not at all; hunched on its perch it eyed its audience, Sam thought, looking for all the Shire like a crotchety old gaffer, sat in the chimney corner and finding complaint everywhere. Now he thought about it, that testy _Shut the door, lad, you think I’m made of firing?_ sounded very much like his own Gaffer; the tone of _You’ll be sorry, mark my words!_ so lugubriously familiar that he had to look to Frodo, to see if he’d the same thought. By the gleam in his eye he had, of course, though neither of them spoke a word of it as they shared their laughter.

Then, from behind them came a sudden upsurge of noise, shocked _Oh!_ s and some giggling. Each of them became instantly aware of the fact that Pippin was holding neither Sam’s hand nor Frodo’s. It was all too obvious that to find him they need only take the direction from which the hubbub was coming. The spectacle that was attracting so much attention was indeed Pippin, now sitting comfortably cross-legged _behind_ the bars of one of the cages. It belonged to a small, chittering monkey, and they appeared to be playing copycat faces, though she seemed less pleased with his company than he with hers, for she alternated her chitters with bouts of rattling from bar to bar in a most possessive manner.

‘It could have been worse, sir!’ Sam said placatingly, ten minutes later.

‘It could? And how, exactly, might that be? And would I have survived the embarrassment?’ Frodo asked with a groan, completely mortified at having had to reclaim the cousin onto whose shirt he was now holding onto with a grip almost tight enough to tear even such sturdy fabric. The Traveller in charge had made him swear not to leave hold of Pippin for a single second until they were well clear of the menagerie for, he said, he’d not be held responsible for the safety of a lad who could manipulate a locked door that way. 

‘Well, it could have been that big cat’s cage!’ Sam said, not without a shiver at the thought; though knowing Pippin, he wouldn't have been _entirely_ surprised to see the beast roll onto its back and beg a tummy-tickle of him.

Frodo shivered too, probably at the thought of reporting to Paladin Took the untimely demise of his only son and heir - and that after three daughters - Sam guessed. 

‘Pippin!’ Frodo said now, as Pippin gave a particularly vigorous squirm. ‘Pippin, if you don’t behave yourself, I shall have no alternative other than to return you to your Mama.’ He sighed, knowing that Pippin didn’t really believe that his cousin would carry out so underhand a threat.

Sam, with possibly a nearer appreciation of what pressure might best be brought to bear on the young, said, ‘No need to do that, Mr Frodo, sir!’ 

His companions stared at him, Pippin with approval bordering on glee, Frodo in disbelief.

Sam let his left eyelid flicker the tiniest of winks as he went on, ‘No, sir. We can just bob along to Uncle Andy’s stall, and our Ham’ll find us a spare bit of rope and knock up a set of reins for Master Peregrin in no time at all. We’ll not lose him then!’

Frodo somehow managed not to laugh at the outrage on Pippin’s face. ‘My dear Sam - what a splendid notion!’ 

‘No!’ Pippin said loudly, with a scowl that might have done credit to an extremely disgruntled tortoise. ‘I am a _big_ hobbit now! Only _babies_ have reins!’

‘Well, Master Pippin,’ Sam's tone was all reason, ‘if Mr Frodo thought you was growed up enough to trust, he wouldn’t need to bother with them, now would he?’ 

‘I _am_ grown up!’ Pippin insisted in a voice which had more than a little of the sulks about it.

‘In that case,’ Frodo said smoothly, ‘I am sure there will be no need for any such thing – _will_ there, Pippin?’

‘No, Frodo,’ he replied dutifully, less sulk and more relief, now. ‘I’ll be good, truly I will. As good as—as good as _Sam_!’

This time Frodo did laugh aloud. ‘I’ll not look for that in you, scamp – you couldn’t manage that if you lived to be as old as Uncle Bilbo!’

‘Why?’ Pippin demanded - the irritating reflex question with which so many hobbit faunts were wont to wear down the patience of their guardians.

‘Because—because Sam is the best hobbit there has ever been!’ Frodo said quickly, grabbing Pippin’s hand and pulling him toward the next exhibit.

Sam stopped where he was for the minute, not rightly sure what Frodo had meant by that. That Sam was _too_ good – smug and self-righteous, perhaps? He hadn’t _said_ it like that, though – he said it as though it were a good thing to be, and Sam must hold to that thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afficionados of historical toys may sympathise with my desire to give the ball and cup game an alternative name; but Bilbao was not a seaport of Middle-earth...  
> The sweets are more or less traditional here in the UK—and I admit that every single one of them I have weighed or counted out and sold, myself! Not for nothing did I spend my formative years working weekends and holidays in a sweet shop (though I am definitely _not_ Victorian!) However, many of those mentioned _are_ included within a slim red volume in my possession; entitled _The Confectioner's Handbook_ , it is signed and dated _Kate Benson 1887_. Kate was a several times Great Aunt and a Confectioner too. (Maybe it's in the blood??)  
>  The Traveller's Cat may be found [here](http://web.archive.org/web/20050306114020/http://www.juliesjungle.com/caracals.php)  
> Today's trivia: did you know that only once, in a tome of over 1000 pages, does JRRT refer to Peregrin Took as Pip? (I thought not at all until the eagle-eyed Princessofg pointed out the single instance in TTT Chapter 4) *total geek*


	17. Show Day the Second - Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pippin is a small but not insurmountable problem, Sam worries, Frodo is both surprised and shocked – and a good time (of sorts) is had by almost all  
> Rating: Possibly quite high for pain and suffering (albeit masochistic by its very nature) experienced in areas normally requiring the application of such rating for quite _other_ reasons  
>  **Warning** : Now is the time to remember what I wrote at the beginning:  
>  _One part will have a possible Squick-maker_ Extraordinaire _which cannot be classified under any of the usual headings, and is probably completely apocryphal, anyway (it does not affect either of our heroes. Except indirectly. And transiently.) In which case, I can only advise any stray male who may be reading to steer clear, or at the least to read with one sympathetic hand guarding a particularly valued portion of his anatomy_  
>  So, warning repeated; applicable also to those with little sympathy for daring, stupid, _apocryphal_ country 'sports': be prepared to back button, part way through.
> 
> Eagle-eyed readers will notice I posted the wrong chapter with these notes; sorry!

It simply hadn’t been possible, earlier - what with Master Pippin all ears and questions - to find the right moment to enquire, so Sam had never quite managed to discover whether Frodo understood the nature of the evening’s 'entertainment'. And it weren’t exactly something you’d want to stumble across all unprepared, that were for sure. 

'Are we going home now, Frodo?’ Pippin asked at last. 

His high spirits had begun to flag towards teatime; though refreshed for a while by several sandwiches and rather more cake and lemonade than a parent might have approved, they were on the droop again before long. It seemed that only a dogged determination to enjoy his day to its very end, no matter the effort, could keep his eyelids from following suit. By the time the three directed their steps toward the judges’ tent to meet Bilbo, he was fighting his yawns valiantly. Whatever Pippin did, he put his whole self into, and bedtime was fast approaching.

‘You aren’t going home tonight, remember? You’re going back to Bag End with Bilbo.’

‘And _you_!’

The conviction in his voice only confirmed Sam’s foreboding that Frodo would indeed be returning home for the night. The light supper and truckle bed awaiting Pippin would be accepted so much more readily with his favourite cousin there to entertain him with stories and read him to sleep. A rather splendid meal had been arranged for his elders, partly prepared and wholly served by Sam’s own sisters. Having no particular interest in the finer points of Shirestock, the Gamgee lasses didn’t attend the second day of the Show, though tomorrow would be a _very_ different matter, what with Mr Bilbo’s prompt payment just itching to be spent and the dancing to come, as well.

Frodo shook his head. ‘No, Pippin. Sam and I are staying over for the whole Show.’ Sam’s head shot up at that - Frodo _wasn’t_ leaving him; suddenly, the rest of this day seemed that much brighter.

‘Staying? _Sleeping_ here?’ Pippin’s eyes widened despite their weariness. 

Sam could remember his own astonishment at the notion, when he’d been about Pippin’s age. For lads that young, the Show was about stalls and Rides and having fun; they’d no need to consider the practicalities of keeping livestock on site for days on end.

‘Where? Where do you sleep? I want to see!’ 

He was most impressed with the huge tent and the rows of (mostly) neatly stacked bedding on palliasses of bright straw. ‘Which is your bed, Frodo?’ he asked, and when Frodo pointed out packs and folded blankets lying on Bilbo’s groundsheet, ‘Where’s Sam’s?’

There was a slight pause while Sam tried to think of a way to put it that didn’t come out sounding all wrong, but Frodo just smiled and said, ‘We sleep here together.’ Which were naught but truth, of course, and Sam thought it one of the best things he’d ever heard (though he could think of ways of improving on it).

‘Oh. May I stay, too, Frodo, may I? Please? I'll be good, truly I will! Please may I? _Please?_ ’

‘Well, you’d have to be _very_ good or you'll find the hobbit in charge can be quite fierce! And you would be in this huge tent all on your own to begin with, for Sam and I come to bed _much_ later.’

‘ _All_ on my own?’ That did seem to strike a chord. 

‘Well, no, not exactly,’ Frodo admitted. ‘There will be quite a few other lads in here, but you probably won’t know any of them, and you’d have to keep very quiet anyway – they're here to sleep, not chatter!’ 

Pippin would probably find _that_ a more worrisome proposition, Sam thought; and there were a good chance, should Pippin get his way, that whichever hobbit _were_ in charge tonight might find himself with more to do than usual, for he’d livened up no end at the prospect.

And, really, the matter had not taken much settling. Pippin had pouted and cajoled, then offered a trembling lower lip to his parents and it’d been plain to see that, much as he was loved, the offer of an entirely Pippin-free visit to Bag End posed a considerable temptation. What parent could resist the chance to concentrate wholly on the delicacies set before them, the choice wines Bilbo would undoubtedly broach, _without_ constant demands for drinks of water and 'just one more story' from an over-tired little lad? 

They’d agree in a trice but for guilt at landing Frodo with their son once more, Sam decided, just as Frodo, easy prey to the trembling lip ploy, looked directly at him and raised his eyebrows. Sam nodded - he’d have his Frodo here and naught else mattered - and that had been that. Pippin, all smiles again now, would sleep with them at the Show (though Sam were still in two minds as to whether a midnight walk to Bag End with a weeping faunt may be necessary).

Discussion done, there was a flurry of activity with Bilbo at centre, directing. Eglantine whisked her son off to the refreshment tent where an early supper was already being served to the younger hobbits before bed; Paladin dispatched a handy lad to fetch up the Took carriage whilst he assembled his daughters and the inevitable pile of purchases; Frodo left in search of Daddy Twofoot; and Sam went off to tack up Beechnut.

Carriage, trap and Tooks all returned at more or less the same time, but Frodo was still nowhere to be seen. Bilbo sent the Family on to Bag End before him, rather than keep all the ponies waiting about; the trap being lighter and faster would probably catch them up, anyway. He was careful to keep Pippin close, the useful glove puppet now doing dwarf-duty in a hastily cobbled tale. Sam listened as best he could, one hand busy soothing Beechnut who stamped and fidgeted a bit at being left behind, until Frodo appeared at last, errant Twofoot in tow, his escort an even more sprightly affair than the morning’s had been. 

Then, the old hobbit had been all anticipation despite his arthritic knees; now, he practically danced back to the pony trap, and Sam suspected that for two pins he’d probably have had a go at carrying Muriel’s basket, too. The basket in Frodo’s hands; the one that was now quite _blatantly_ adorned with a large and extremely red rosette, tails spread wide to extend the display. Sam couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d won it himself. He helped Daddy clamber into the trap and took the basket from Frodo to settle it on the proud owner’s knees so it’d be nicely visible to all whom they passed on the way home to Bagshot Row. 

It had to be admitted though, that he’d less than half an ear to spare for the old hobbit’s joyful account of his triumph - even _with_ its accompaniment of smug, if somewhat muffled, clucks; for, as Mr Bilbo was handing back the would-be dwarf, something in Frodo’s quiet, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance…’ had claimed most of his attention.

‘Ah, now, I’m glad you mentioned that,' Bilbo said. 'I did just manage a bit of a chat with Bill, over a pot of tea and one or two rather excellent scones. It so happened,’ and Mr Bilbo could pretend that either Sam or Frodo would believe that if he liked, but for his part Sam’d as soon swear to elves at the bottom of Bag End’s garden, ‘that Rafe was passing Swire’s Sundries as I arrived, and I prevailed upon him to mind the stand for Bill whilst we went for tea. 

‘No,’ he said, in answer to Frodo's unasked question, ‘I didn’t tell him why, not yet, but he was perfectly willing - and even Bill had to admit that he made a good job of it. When we arrived back, the stall had more customers than it’d seen all day. The lad has a nice line in patter and he knows one garden implement from another for all that he’s a Traveller. It was a promising start, for seeing really is believing - and worth all the recommendation in the world!’

Only a series of truly impressive yawns cut off Pippin’s demands to know _who_ and _where_ and _what for_ , and especially _why_ Sam was suddenly grinning fit to burst and Frodo hugging Uncle Bilbo so tightly that (so he said) his ribs squeaked. Ribs or no, he stepped nimbly enough into the trap and then it was on its way, rosette ribbons aflutter and more than the suggestion of a celebratory progress about it. 

Pippin’s bedtime was far less difficult than Sam had expected; and a joint assault on the remarkable state of grubbiness the lad had managed to achieve was a sight more successful than the Mistress’s spitty hanky, applied before his supper, that had just seemed to spread the mess further, if thinner. Clean enough, slightly damp and still complaining sleepily about the lack of warm water for a wash he really hadn’t needed anyway, Pippin was taken off to their blankets by Frodo alone. He’d insisted that Pippin would settle more quickly that way, and Sam was left here to reflect on the fact that Frodo probably didn’t have any idea what were afoot this night.

Last year, Sam and a couple of other reckless almost-tweens had evaded curfew, hiding themselves away until deepening dusk concealed their features and they could peep from a distance at this thing that was kept so secret until you were deemed old enough. With only a single mug of illicitly obtained ale to numb all three of them, that distance had been a blessing; he remembered very clearly the shock, the reluctant fascination, and an acutely appalled fellow-feeling in the relevant area. He _assumed_ that such things must occur at other times and in other places - though nowhere local that he could name. Surely the Great Smials - or more likely Brandy Hall - could boast a tradition even more pointless and foolhardy? If so, Frodo was obviously of an age to have witnessed it; but for all that, a doubt niggled at Sam’s mind. 

Tilting his mug, he was surprised by the final swallow; the brew had slipped down so smoothly, it disappeared afore he’d even time to realise it. He could feel its good offices working on him already, soothing anxiety to a vaguer state of apprehension. It was no accident that tonight’s ale was extra strong; laid on special so the serving hobbit said, when Sam returned for a refill and another for Frodo. It was valued as much for its rapidly numbing effect, when taken on an empty stomach (supper being delayed for the purpose, tonight), as for its undoubtedly excellent flavour. 

‘ _Two_ this time, lad?’ he asked with a grin, pumping ale expertly. ‘You’ll be legless afore they even gets started!’

‘What? Oh, no, they aren’t both for me! The other’s for—for my friend.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Winking, he passed brimming mugs across the makeshift bar. 

Sam blushed as he paid, unsure as to whether that wink meant summat to do with the beer or if it meant what he’d want it to, if what it meant were what the barhobbit _might_ have meant it to mean… It occurred to him then that this ale really _were_ a fair bit stronger than aught else he were used to, and he resolved to stretch this one a good step further than his first.

Even so, it couldn’t _quite_ stop him fretting at his own failure to provide either explanation or warning afore this. Frodo might not _want_ to watch, after all, once he knew what were going forward here, and retreat would be no shame. Many a hobbit preferred to bide by the fire (and close to the supper tables), settling with most of the lasses, the matrons and codgers to a relaxing chat and the quiet enjoyment of his ale before the late meal. Frodo really should have that option - he just weren’t here to be given it; Pippin may have _seemed_ ready to sleep just as soon as his head was fairly down, but Sam remembered ‘one more story’ and guessed that to be what was keeping Frodo now.

But he’d find his way quick enough just as soon as he were able - you couldn’t exactly miss it, after all. Most of the tween lads were present and a good many of their elders too, all awaiting this strangely compulsive contest. It weren’t as though they were quiet, neither, what with the strength of the brew and that strangely _loosed_ feeling you got - fleeting, but heady for all that - just from being at the Show; like Frodo had said – a bit to one side of the real thing.

They stood by knots and clusters all around a makeshift stage; Sam thought it may even be the same flatbed wagon, moved a bit for convenience, that he and Frodo had occupied for their rather more wholesome (if messy) display of blindfolded porridge delivery. There were lanterns strung generously all around and above now, to ensure that not the least of the evening’s heroics need be missed to the coming of night. Into their light, and a sustained cheering, the contestants marched boldly forward.

They were three this year, and from the look of them they'd been well-plied with Tipple already, to be approaching their ordeal with such resolution. Two of them Sam knew by name. Edwin Muddifoot lived at Frogmorton and was a butcher by trade; of full age and more, from the confident way he called to friends in the crowd he had done this before. Sam thought he’d maybe taken part last year, but it weren’t exactly _faces_ he remembered of that night. The elder of the tweens was Dan Beasley, a cousin of Sam’s goat-keeping friend Jess, from out Pincup way; the other looked just a little familiar. Sam had the feeling he might have seen him around the Showground, but the hobbit that came to mind was ruddy, with a permanently cheerful grin; this one was paler than should be possible for any lad who’d spent a day out in the sun. Sam wondered whether he’d had a deal more ale than the other two, or if he’d suddenly realised what he’d let himself in for.

‘What are they doing?’ 

Sam almost dropped the pair of mugs he was holding. Frodo had come up behind him, standing so close - to catch his attention over the hubbub - that most of his question had spilled, warm and damp, across Sam’s neck to tumble forward through his open collar. (Oddly, its downward progress was completely unimpeded by his intervening waistband; and the effect of that innocently humid enquiry made him exceptionally glad that he had not been rash enough to take part in the forthcoming event. Who knew what wholly unwelcome and possibly permanently debilitating effects might result from such careless temerity…to say nothing of a suddenly increased target area.)

He stepped back a little and half-turned to Frodo. Lip reading might hold its own set of pitfalls, but it’d be safer in the long run. ‘They’re ferret-legging, sir.’

‘They’re _what_?’ 

Apparently, _not_ all queer goings on were known at Brandy Hall.

‘Ferret-legging. Them as is brave enough has a pair of ferrets put down their britches, and the winner is the last one left standing.’ 

Frodo’s mouth fell open, and now it was the ripe curve of his lower lip that hitched Sam’s breath. ‘You _are_ joking, aren’t you, Sam?’ 

‘No, sir.’ Forcing his mind back to practical matters, Sam thrust a mug into Frodo’s hand. ‘That’s why you’ll need this. Triple Tipple, brought in special from the Toad and Bucket at Fennybridge. Supposed to be the strongest ale in the Shire, and I'm thinking that may be right, an’ all. I’d get outside of it right quick if you’re wanting to watch, sir.’ 

The contestants had scrambled onto the wagon bed, now, arms aloft in reply to their exuberant reception. Frodo stared at them for a moment, then took a large gulp of ale, choking in surprise at the strength of it. When he recovered, he tried a more measured sip. ‘Do I have to finish it all at once? It tastes to be worth the savouring!’

‘Aye, that it is, but if we’re to stay, a good slurp should work well enough, seeing as you’ve eaten naught since teatime. We don’t have to, though, if you’d rather not, sir - we could sit out and enjoy the ale proper, instead. A lot of folk do.’ 

Frodo’s reply was lost to a burst of louder cheering from the crowd, but the taking of another draught gave Sam his answer. He'd known, really, that Frodo would _need_ to see what was to come, little though he may actually _enjoy_ it. 

The sudden upsurge in noise was Terlo Ridgeway’s welcome to the platform. A stone mason much respected in the district for both strength and reliable workmanship, Terlo was in demand whenever an informal master of ceremonies was required; somehow, he’d the gift for it. He introduced the competitors one by one, making much of them, drawing from them the details of their daily lives and family connections, and complimenting their selfless fortitude in providing the spectacle to come. The audience awarded loud, generous and almost unbiased appreciation to each one of them. (It turned out that the third lad was a farmer’s son from out Delving way, and a Burrows; which may well account for Sam’s thinking he knew the face, the Burrowses being particularly prolific around Hobbiton.) 

Though their chests were bare, all three were clad voluminously below the waist, in trousers that seemed almost to billow around them, overly long and secured with baling band between calf and ankle. The sensible participant obviously borrowed breeches from a much larger hobbit in every direction, so there should be room enough and to spare. It most definitely made sense to borrow from a taller hobbit, so that the legs could be tied as low down as might be and thus tempt the animals to remain as far southward as possible. 

‘Sam?’ Frodo’s voice was rather tight; it seemed that another aspect of the affair had struck him at last. ‘Are they— are they wearing anything _underneath_?’

‘No, sir. That’s… um… the point.’

'Goodness me!’ Frodo sucked in a sharp breath and fidgeted his feet close together. Sam knew exactly where his imagination had taken him for his own had followed fast, and not even this direst of threats could dampen Sam's reaction to what it found there; a quick sup of Tipple proved equally useless.

A solemn hush fell as Terlo spaced his contestants so that each might be seen to best advantage. The expressions on their faces differed according to temperament - all wavering somewhere amidst misplaced bravado, the inhibiting effect of very strong ale, and a completely justifiable trepidation bordering somewhat upon terror. But none of the three accepted Terlo’s offer of retreat without dishonour; foolhardiness to the fore, they stood proud, and the contest was declared under way. Three more hobbits clambered up onto the wagon, thickly leather-gloved but otherwise normally dressed. They bore a wriggling sack apiece, lowered carefully now, ties loosened in readiness. At Terlo’s command the contestants’ belts were undone, the vast waist of each solitary garment pulled outward; the assistants dipped deep into their sacks, and produced, one in either hand, a brace of ferrets.

There was a completely audible gasp from the spectators. 

It may have been his fevered imagination working double time now, but Sam was convinced that he caught a gleam of light from each razor-sharp tooth, from every one of those brightly needling claws. He rather thought the animals weren’t best pleased at having been bundled away into sacks at the end of their day and then brought out into the light again so suddenly, when they’d been settling for sleep in their homely hutches.

‘Ready, lads?’ Terlo held a pocket watch in hand. 

‘So _that’s_ what he wanted it for!’ Frodo whispered, directly into Sam’s ear.

‘Sir?’ The best he could manage was not much above a strangled squeak; Sam was acutely aware that, had he been a competitor in his current condition, he would have provided a very _active_ target for a predatory ferret.

‘Terlo borrowed Bilbo's watch, earlier.’

‘Three!’ Terlo called, and the helpers held their ferrets high in the air, where they wriggled in a highly disgruntled manner.

‘Two!’ the crowd yelled; the ferrets were lowered to waist level before each of the waiting hobbits.

‘One!’ The shout was deafening, and the ferrets squirmed - eyes flashing, Sam would swear - as (‘ _GO!_ ’) they were dropped within the cavernous clothing.

‘Tie up!’ Belts were securely refastened, and a complete silence fell.

Though he had seen this before, it had been from a nice distance. Sam stood now in fascinated horror, his recent enthusiasm dwindling to naught as each hobbit’s trousers looked to surge and writhe around him. The indignant beasts were obviously bent on rapid escape from this new confinement, like and yet unlike the dark burrows in which they were used to seek their prey. It seemed they didn’t care much whether they had to claw or chew their way out neither, and woe betide aught that got in their way - especially if it bore a passing resemblance to a blind and naked rabbit kit. 

Bravely braced as yet, the competitors were twitching a little, to be sure, but their mouths clamped firmly shut upon the moans of pain that they must surely need to express. A hushed murmur arose from the watchers, more than one face reflecting the anguish endured so stoically before them; more than one hand slipping down as if to protect the spectator’s own valuables.

The thrumming tension was broken suddenly by a tightly agonised cry that found a swift and sympathetic echo from amongst the audience. 

It came as no real surprise that the younger tween should be the first to break, slapping and pulling at the central spot where at least one of his ferrets was making its displeasure known unrelentingly. The lad lashed himself from side to side, desperate to be rid of his intimate burden, but to no avail. Throwing up his arms in surrender, he toppled gracelessly into the crowd, to be carried away and freed of his troubles.

Now the crowd grew partisan, needing to acknowledge that the sufferings, borne here so nobly, were for _their_ entertainment. The split was almost even between supporters who called encouragement to Edwin and those whose partiality was for Dan Beasley.

‘Come on, Ned, you can do it!’

‘You show him how it’s done, Dan-lad!’

‘He’s flinchin’, he is, Ned! You hang in there, and you’ll beat him!’ There was a burst of raucous laughter at the infelicitous reminder.

‘Nay, Dan, just a bit longer!’

Sam could almost feel their torment. Dan was twisting frantically on the spot, hands slapping wildly hither and thither but, in his agitation, without either aim or success. Despite his most heroic efforts, high pitched moans escaped him, almost in time with the futile flapping of his fists. Edwin remained rigidly silent, arms folded high over his chest, his pain betrayed only by the squeezed-up agony in his face, and by his knuckles, stark white and bloodless as he gripped his own elbows. 

But for Sam there was suddenly a closer ache, as Frodo - eyes locked onto the two still battling their torture - seized onto his arm, squeezing almost hard enough to bruise. Small wonder he were taking it hard, Sam thought - he’d not fully appreciated what were to happen, and the Tipple had scarce had a proper chance to work on him. And really, when you thought about it, it _were_ a truly shocking thing – to watch, let alone to do; stupid and reckless, and born of the stupid recklessness of a lot of hobbit lads together, wild and free (and not a little tipsy). 

No amount of reaction to this touch could reanimate Sam’s previous condition, for he could see the anguish of the competitors mirrored deep in Frodo’s face. Needing to help, Sam set his free hand gently on top of his master’s and said, ‘It’s all right sir, I’m here.’ 

_Oh, now, and how foolish is that? As if Sam Gamgee could make aught better, just by being there!_ But the tight grip slackened from crushing to clenching, and just a little of the tension eased from Frodo’s forehead; and in that moment, Sam knew he would always be there for Frodo, even if his presence were all that he could give.

In the few seconds he had taken to glance aside, the end had come. As Sam looked back to the makeshift stage, the crowd voiced support and sympathy, success and commiseration in equal measure. Poor Dan had dropped to his knees, and by the rules the stoicism of Edwin Muddifoot had won the day - or night. His victory salute was necessarily brief, however, as he and his defeated companion-in-distress vanished rapidly from sight, each to the good friends who would rescue him from further damage and return his tormentors, irritably but safely, to their interrupted rest. Terlo stepped forward to announce that Edwin’s time, though worthy of the highest praise, was several seconds short of the record, and that his prize - a firkin of Triple Tipple - would be presented to him just as soon as he might be in a condition to receive it. He then led the company in a rousing cheer for all three brave participants, and the ordeal was finished for another year.

Frodo’s grip on Sam's arm slackened and then slid away, but Sam thought he looked still to be in need of a little comfort. ‘You wait on a bit, sir,’ he said, ‘and I’ll fetch another mug to wash away the after effects. If you’re like me, you sort of feel it even if them things never actually got within yards of your—’ his voice stumbled, then steadied again, ‘—britches.’

‘No, Sam, I’m all right now. It was just a little shocking to begin with. I still cannot imagine—well, I can _imagine_ , though I don’t understand why—Anyway, _I_ shall get the ale – you find us a perch.’

‘What about supper, sir?' The entire gathering was moving purposefully in that direction, now. 'Could you fancy some, should you think?’ 

Frodo nodded, though Sam had his doubts as to whether he really meant it. But by the time that they converged on a convenient bale of straw - Sam carrying two brimming bowls with generous of hunks of fresh bread tucked beneath each elbow, Frodo with a foaming mug in either hand - each was ready enough to eat heartily.

Shocked reaction eased quickly under the promise of well-filled bellies and a continuing flow of ale, and hobbits all around were loud now in their praise of the evening’s contestants. The meal was eaten to the accompaniment of wide-ranging (if intermittent) discussion of the fortitude, constancy of purpose and sheer reckless stupidity of competitors over the years. Particularly painful bouts were recalled almost fondly, and lasting injuries catalogued with ghoulish glee, but the heroism – foolish in the extreme but heroism nonetheless - was toasted, over and again. 

What with so much of the Tipple on top of sheer relief - even a spectator could feel easier in his trousers, now that all was over - the evening rapidly descended into ever sillier jokes and a great deal of gratuitous merriment. One hobbit cackled over ‘A bane in their britches,’ another came up with ‘Doom in his drawers,’ and a third offered, 'A nuisance in their nether garments.’ 

Then, in the sudden, unintended silence that sometimes happens in a crowd, an elderly female voice was heard to opine, ‘Could ’a’ bin a wicked waste of a willy, though!’ 

To a hobbit, the company fell about laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For enquiring minds that _need_ to know:  
>  _Triple Tipple_ wrote itself into existence before I googled and discovered that there is, in fact, a Mannish version; this tale implies no endorsement thereof, and optimistic consumers should not expect either Frodo or Sam to magically appear, no matter how many flagons of such inferior product they put away. Idiosyncratic regional names for beer are something of an English tradition, though a [couple](http://www.pub-explorer.com/realale/charleswellsbrewery.htm%20) of [these](http://www.pub-explorer.com/realale/adnamsbrewery.htm%0A%20) [are](http://www.pub-explorer.com/realale/jenningsbeers.htm%0A%20) [ more](http://web.archive.org/web/20051105093334/http://www.mauldons.co.uk/beers.htm) [recent](http://www.pub-explorer.com/realale/wyrepiddlebrewery.htm) [examples - that last, apparently, the oldest](http://www.pub-explorer.com/realale/shepherdneamebeers.htm)  
>  There's a fascination to [archaic measures](http://www.footrule.com/1/conversn/oldenguk.htm?sr=homepage&ac=0%20) \- though Shire capacity was, of course, tailored to a _proper_ size  
> [This](http://web.archive.org/web/20040811132221/http://www.physiol.ox.ac.uk/~raac/ferret_legging.htm) (plus a certain amount of urban legend) was my basis for possibly disturbing occurrences herein (best not to follow the link until you have read the chapter – Spoilers…) Please do bear in mind such words as _spoof, gullible_ and _sucker_ when accessing… (And, in case you were wondering, my version was written _long_ before Mike Newell flirted with the idea in HPOotP)


	18. Show Day the Second - Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam experiences a glimmer of light (amongst other things) in a dark place, Pippin unknowingly fulfils the role of a certain species of fruit (not entirely unwelcome, in the circumstances), and Frodo soothes Sam into sleep  
> Rating: _Not_ G
> 
> Erroneously posted as 16 - sorry!

A chance remark, overheard as he waited by the beer keg for refills - a couple of bowls of stew and a good helping or two from the vast boiled pudding drenched in hot jam had settled any wooziness to a pleasantly mellow warmth - brought home to Sam the sudden realisation that tomorrow would see the end of the Show. They had been here three full days already and this night would be the third. Small wonder then that Frodo's constant company should have given rise (yes indeed, and Sam’s smile at the thought was rueful) to another need, far more pressing than this for ale; one which had been building steadily since that memorable journey here, when he’d held a dozing Frodo so carefully against his chest.

No, longer by far than that. 

Smile by smile and dream by dream this need had gathered itself through many a year - maybe since the day long ago when, for a small hobbit lad, _blue_ had ceased to mean _sky_ or _flower_ and begun to mean _Frodo_ first, last and always. And this Show had given him so much of Frodo, there beside him, simmering under his skin; Frodo eating, laughing, playing, grousing, sleeping – and there’d not be much sleep for Sam Gamgee this night if he didn’t take care of the problem that was pushing quietly but insistently against the flap of his breeches. Never mind that it might have been a bit subdued by the ferret-legging – it’d returned soon enough and would likely worsen yet, with the prospect of sleeping by Frodo once more.

Handing over the full mug, Sam took a second draught from his own and then set it down. With a casual wave of the hand he indicated a trip to the privies. Not the whole truth, of course, but Tipple or no, there weren’t a brew in the Shire strong enough to make a dint in the need Sam had on him tonight; in taking care of the one, he’d find time for the other. 

For an uneasy moment, he thought that Frodo might be going to accompany him – he’d had near as much ale after all. But he wouldn’t... even in a stall, he couldn’t... It'd not be right, not with Frodo there, too close not to hear and _know_ \- and maybe even get the wrong idea as to why or who... To his considerable relief, Frodo seemed to change his mind and sank back onto their bale.

Sam made purposefully for a distant corner of the field, keeping a wary eye and ear for the courting couples lost in each other between dim and dark, the moon riding pale and low as yet. He passed one or two soundlessly, wishing fervently that they’d return the compliment for he could really do without their frenzied reminders of what he so needed now. 

The hedgerow fragrance of late honeysuckle led him beneath the sprawl of a sentinel oak, its lavish sweetness captured there; ensnared bythe leafy canopy, it was heady enough almost to fuddle his mind. The tree’s broad trunk seemed merely a richer black amid the scented shadows, fissured bark his fingers' proof until his eyes should grow accustomed. From here, the far-off raise of laughing voices was no more than a hushed accent to the almost-silence of the night. Somewhere close at hand, a squeak skittered and stilled, then another, and again; faint rustling stirred the leaves above him and a constant whisper shivered the headland grasses. The sound of so many small creatures going about their secret business only added to Sam's sense of his seclusion. 

Setting his back to the tree, he unbuttoned one side of his breeches and couldn’t help his gasp aloud as he eased himself carefully into the air, though his longing layered easily into the murmurs of the night. He must not linger here, lest Frodo wonder where he’d got to, but he’d not need long at all with such remembrances so clear within his head—

Frodo sleeping, warm and flushed against him in the wagon coming here (long strokes always, to begin - a tongue-slickened drag of palm to skin already taut and eager)

Frodo rolling over him and over, heat to solid heat in their tumble from the Joywheel (thumb swirling circles of liquid torment to the tip)

Frodo kneeling at his feet, the night-dark silk a whispered caress across Sam’s skin (want coiling sharply needful in his belly, drawn tighter with each and every pass)

Frodo riffling Sam’s own foothair, loosing tingles, arrow-keen, unerring to the gold (fist curled tighter yet, fiercer, thrusting harder, fast and faster still)

Frodo skirring midnight's calm beside him, silvered in starlight; smooth and pale and peerless with his hope-filled question - _Could you?_

Could I…? (that flick, Frodo's flick, with the perfect, clever, _wicked_ twist that – _Ahh!_ )

His eyes deep and luminous, their entreaty mute but clear - _Could you love me, Sam?_

No need of asking! (breath stuttering wildly to the frantic rhythm of his hand)

His mouth a sweet wet glide, gentle and insistent - _Love me Sam?_

Love you, Frodo! (wrenched from him on a gasp, high and splintery and _almost_ there)

His fingers slipping, sliding, slickly claiming - _Love me, Sam!_

Love you! (desperate in the final aching rush of need, soaring fast toward that sudden, raging stillness)

His lips kissing home Sam’s answer, tongues tangling, twining - bodies hot and damp and oh so tight and Frodo fervent here above him, loving, asking, giving – _Sam!_

 _FRODO!_ A stifled shout, quickly swallowed by the welcoming darkness.

Legs refusing to hold him longer, Sam slumped down against the oak. He lay a while, breathless and spent, then tugged sparse grass to clean himself, putting body and clothes slowly to rights, though he’d need more than a few hurried minutes afore he’d be in any fit state to return to Frodo. 

He let his head fall back and tallied once again the blessings that this Show had given him - so much time he'd been granted of having Frodo all to himself, trial though it had proved now and then. And this time tomorrow night, it would be almost over.

All to himself…

Almost over…

And no lass had appeared, to steal his Frodo from him. 

Sam sat up suddenly. Frodo had said he were waiting, were wanting to ask—

_Who?_

He almost choked on the hope that brimmed so suddenly inside, then steadied himself. This needed clear thinking – it’d be the worst thing in the world to be wrong about. But supposing – just _supposing_ \- he’d been looking at it back’ards road about, all along? 

Frodo had never _said_ he were waiting for a lass, not by what Sam had heard. And barring one quick chat with Betony Meridew (which seemingly had not been at all what Sam had thought it) and lunch with Sam’s sisters (that Frodo treated pretty much as though they were his own, though more politely, o’course), he’d spent time with no lass at all. Nor with any lad, neither, other than Sam.

He’d told Mr Bilbo that he wanted to use his time at the Show to _ask_ whoever…

All the time they’d been here, Frodo had scarcely left Sam’s side, except when he must. Not only had no lass, nor even any lad, turned up to take Frodo away, Frodo had not _wished_ to be away from Sam, for he'd come back right quick whenever they'd been parted.

Frodo had shared – had _wanted_ to share - this Show with Sam.

Would it be over-hasty to assume that it were Sam he wanted to _ask_?

Could it really be—? Did Frodo—? _Could_ he—?

_Careful, lad - don’t you go snatching conclusions like a Sackville-Baggins at a party invite!_

And then again, Frodo’s upset over Betony Meridew – summat as had made no real sense, once Frodo denied all claim to her. Had Frodo been jealous of _her_ , because he thought Sam interested in her, rather than being jealous of _Sam_ for showing interest in ‘his’ Betony?

Like the stretch of a new-hatched butterfly, the notion seeped through Sam, awareness unfurling joyously in its wake - and he might have felt limp as a biscuit dunked in hot tea not so many minutes ago, but right now he were so made up that there weren't aught he wouldn't take on. Pity, he thought briefly, he couldn’t have a go at the Mighty Striker – he’d hit so hard the arrow would set the bell to ring from the Show-field clear across to Buckland and beyond. It’d fly on up till it were hob-nobbing with the eagles, echoing his love from here to Dale and back again.

Oh, and now he were _really_ torn. Half of him wanted to rush off to where Frodo waited for him (waited for _him_!) to kiss him senseless and then fetch him back here - to this wonderful, sturdy oak that Sam were sure had helped him to see this truly amazing thing - and do it _right_ this time. The other half rose ponderous in his mind as Gaffer at his most dispiriting - all dire warnings against getting above himself, about daring to raise his eyes to the Master’s heir - and not being good enough, anyway, to lay a finger on such perfection.

Well, he definitely couldn’t do the one (not unless he were _asked_!) But he couldn’t wholly accept the other, neither, not now he’d allowed himself to think – to imagine... The only thing _to_ do were to wait and see. Oh, and weren’t there a world of difference between _wait and see_ when you were expecting your heart to be hurt beyond bearing, and _wait and see_ when you might possibly, just _possibly_ , have a chance of the one thing that would make you the happiest hobbit in the Shire – nay, in the whole of Middle-earth?

But he’d best be getting a move on now, for it must be nigh on bedtime already and _that_ waited for no hobbit, not even one who thought he might've realised at last what should have been obvious all along, if only he’d been looking at things the right road round. Possibly. Maybe. And whichever way, he’d get to sleep by his Frodo once again. It were happen lucky, he thought as he made his way back across the field - with indulgent and hope-filled smiles, now, for the gasps and little cries from couples hidden in the scented darkness - happen _right_ lucky that Master Pippin would be there between them this night, for otherwise there were no telling, now his mind had admitted such blissful possibility, quite _what_ his body might get up to without his say-so, whilst he slept.

Their bale was empty save for a pair of mugs, one still full, the other lacking a sup or two, set companionably close on the golden straw; and for an unreasoning minute, Sam panicked. Then, as Frodo re-appeared from the direction of the privies, he busied himself taking a quick drink to fend off any question of their paths not having crossed along the way. The urge to blurt out, _Did you want to ask me something, Mr Frodo?_ was strong in him, but so was a sudden hot-cold embarrassment at the thought of trying to explain what he'd meant should Frodo not have any such question in mind at all – of Sam, at any rate. 

But Frodo asked nothing, said nothing; smiling vaguely and not quite looking at Sam at all, he picked up his own mug and drank deeply. Must have been a hurried trip, Sam mused, to leave him flushed and a little out of breath like that. He couldn’t help noticing such things, though he fixed his eyes on the low ebb of his ale with a humdrum remark as to how late it were getting. The number of folk here had begun to thin noticeably, conversation turning desultory and slow, as though it were just too much effort for a hobbit to finish up here and take him or herself off to bed. More than one could match the vast yawn that overtook Frodo and passed rapidly to Sam. 

Of course, in the normal run of things, they might only just be leaving the Green Dragon for the walk home. If they’d visited the Ivy Bush instead, they’d still be comfortably settled with a fresh round just in, like as not. But it were a very different thing being at the Show, Sam thought; it might be far more exciting and you might enjoy every last minute, but it fair wore you out. And when you were used to the tranquil pace of a gardener’s life, this constant bustle of hobbits all around you - scarce more than a few minutes of quiet and solitude to call your own (especially considering what he’d just used them few minutes _for_ ) - well, it took some getting used to and no mistake.

He might even have nodded off for a minute or two, for the next he knew were a gentle nudge to his shoulder and a tip of Frodo's head towards the sleeping tent. Sam flushed deeply, wishing that his skin weren’t quite so quick to turn an innocent enquiry into a longed-for invitation, and hid his face in the very last sup of his ale. When he dared look again, Frodo had already finished his and was halfway to the washtub with their supper bowls, scooping up a few that had been abandoned on his way. By some unspoken decision, every hobbit still steady on his or her feet began to collect the scattered remains of supper or to tip bales together against the rise of overnight damp. Despite a drowsy silence and to say how reluctant they’d all been to make a start, the work was quickly done, and folk melted away, then, to wherever beds awaited them.

A straggle of yawning hobbits spread slowly along the lines of resting bodies on the floor of the huge tent, and there was more than one weary stumble over outflung limbs seemingly discarded by careless sleepers, muffled apology following muttered complaint. Sam's own steps were weaving a little from tiredness now, and he could really have done without Frodo's quietly dismayed exclamation as they reached their sleeping place. 

‘Oh dear, Sam - I think we may have something of a problem!’

Even in the mostly dark, Sam could see his point. The plan had been for Pippin to share their blankets, sleeping between them in the centre of the groundsheet; certainly Frodo had put him to bed there. He might be a slight enough lad for all his ten years - even a bit on the skinny side, though it weren’t for want of appetite, Sam knew - but right now he seemed to be made all of angles and elbows, as the saying went. Sharing didn't seem to be much on his mind neither, seeing as he were taking up more room than not, all by himself. 

‘It’s no matter, sir. I can sleep on this side and stop him rolling right the way off,’ Sam said in an undertone, indicating the ground to Pippin’s left.

‘Don’t be silly, Sam – you can’t sleep on the grass! You _know_ how damp you’d wake up in the morning,’ Frodo protested, just louder than the low rumble of stray conversations now wandering toward silence.

‘I’d not normally have a groundsheet at all, sir,’ he pointed out.

‘No,’ Frodo countered swiftly, ‘but you’d usually get a few batts of straw like the others in here, and it’s far too late to go wandering off looking for some now - you’d just disturb everyone!’

Well, that were true enough; Sam could see the dark outline of a solitary hobbit already lacing up the doorway, and everyone else seemed more or less settled in for the night.

‘I _could_ snuggle up behind Pippin, in the middle, and you could squeeze onto the groundsheet behind me?’

Sam thought there might be more than half a laugh in the start of Frodo’s murmured suggestion - but by the end, he weren’t so sure. Light sufficient to tell shapes couldn’t show you what a shadowed face had writ there; it couldn’t tell if you’d imagined a final, wistful note that found its echo within you, whether or no. 

After a moment of complete stillness, Frodo said, ‘You can keep me warm!’ And Wedmath warmth notwithstanding, that sounded to Sam more defensive than funny, like an attempt to salvage a quip gone awry, maybe - or to retrieve something that had slipped out, unbidden as yet. 

A _proper_ reply would turn all to practicality, to a gardener’s assessment of the weather, perhaps, but he couldn’t think beyond the tempting vision of himself curled sleepily around his Frodo (with never a sign of Pippin at all). Right then there were naught he’d like better, though he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it’d be a different story were they to wake spooned so tightly together. And none of Sam’s fantasies of making love with Frodo at the edge of dawn had ever featured an audience of _any_ kind, let alone a tentful of ear-wigging hobbits.

‘No!’ he said, a little louder and a good deal more reluctantly than he made it sound; then, lower but just as firm, he added, ‘I can’t do that, sir. It wouldn’t be right.’ Nor would it. Despite the awareness he thought he’d found, he couldn’t take such advantage until he were sure - and this were neither time nor place to put it to the test, no matter how much he might wish it to be true, no matter that his body cried out to lie like that with Frodo's. 

‘Oh, Sam!’ was a mere hiss of breath that seemed to Sam, with only a touch of optimism, to contain as much disappointment as his own. ‘No, you are quite right, of course. I was—’ he paused, ‘I was just joking. I’m sorry. We’ll have to—’ he closed his hands together in illustration, ‘fold Pippin up on himself a little, between us.’

That might be easier said than done, though. Pippin was hogging his pack too, and while rolled breeches might make pillow enough, Sam didn’t refuse Frodo's offer of a brought-along-but-unneeded waistcoat, to plump up the bundle. They knelt on either side of the sprawling limbs, taking hold and trying gently to steer them to a rather more convenient shape. Inevitably, he awoke.

‘Frodo! Hello, Sam!’

Sam winced at the near-shout, and was unsurprised to note movement and some irritated huffing amid the hitherto restfully blanketed shapes around them.

‘Quietly!’ Frodo said, reaching a swift, silencing finger to Pippin’s mouth, lest he rouse the entire tent. ‘We didn’t mean to wake you. It’s late and nearly everyone’s asleep!’ 

Pippin yawned and propped himself onto one elbow. ‘I expect it’s almost _midnight_ , isn’t it!’ His delight in the prospect was clear.

Funny how one small hobbit’s piercing whisper could carry further and disturb so many more hobbits than words softly spoken, Sam thought, but at least he were trying (Sam almost managed not to think _very_ ). And, looking on the bright side, he weren't wailing to be taken to his ma neither, as Sam had half thought he might; which were _really_ lucky, since he suspected a traipse all the way to Bag End - with Pippin pig-a-back, like as not - might well see him collapse snoring into a ditch on the way back again.

‘You didn’t leave us much room,’ Frodo was explaining, ‘so we had to move you over a bit.’

Pippin squirmed to one side of the ground sheet, leaving slightly more than half of it vacant but taking most of the bedding with him.

‘There you are!’ he said, all generosity and twice as awake as either of them, now. ‘Isn’t this _fun_?’

‘ _Shh!_ ’ Frodo said. ‘No, it’s _bed_ time and we should all be asleep. And _you’re_ supposed to be in the middle, remember?’

‘Why? There’s plenty of room for you two there, if you snuggle up.’ 

Sam heard a stifled snort from Frodo; he closed his eyes and, every wish to the contrary, denied his longing once again. ‘That wouldn’t really be proper, Master Pippin.’

‘Why wouldn’t it be proper, Sam? _Why_ can’t you snuggle up with Frodo?’

‘It’s—um… There’s—um…’ Sam were stumbling afore he’d fairly begun. ‘There’s snuggling and there’s snuggling, Master Pippin. And—and it’s more usual for big lads to snuggle lasses.’

‘Yes,’ Pippin observed smugly, ‘I’ve seen them. Pearl especially. And _kissing_!’ he added, tone and volume leaving no doubt as to his low opinion thereof.

Several more snorts and even a few smothered chuckles were scattered throughout the tent, now. Frodo's attempt to muffle a laugh of his own might have been what kept him from coming to Sam’s aid with a better explanation. Sam blushed, thankful for the darkness, and tried again.

‘Yes, well, it wouldn’t really be right for me to be—to be snuggling like that with Mr Frodo. He’s not my cousin, you see. It’s all right for him to snuggle you, but not—’ Sam knew that only the lift of his head could be seen and not the hope in his eyes, but he was looking straight at Frodo when he said, ‘—not me.’ There was more huffed laughter around them, but what he heard from Frodo might have been a sigh.

'Please, Pippin,' Frodo said, after a slight pause, 'we’re tired and would very much like to get into bed. If you move into the middle and share our blankets with us, I’ll tell you another story.'

With a put-upon _tut_ and a sideways slither, Pippin gave room and bedding at either side, flopping onto his back as Sam and Frodo wiggled into the narrow spaces left to them and pulled covers in place over all. 

Frodo fought another yawn and lost convincingly. 'Sorry! Which would you like?’ 

‘A Hobbit's Tale!’ Pippin proclaimed at once, as though it should have been obvious. ‘There _and_ back again.’

‘But you had that the first time you came to bed,’ Frodo objected.

‘I fell asleep before the best bits,’ Pippin explained patiently, 'so it doesn't count.’ 

‘I should have known that, shouldn’t I? Very well, but you must keep still and let Sam get to sleep - no wriggling!’

Sam smiled gratefully and very much hoped that Pippin were a good bit less wakeful than he seemed, for Mr Bilbo’s tale could take up half the night if told in full. Frodo’s words were heavy with weariness already and he probably needed his rest even more than Sam. If he’d been better at the telling, he’d’ve offered to do it in Frodo’s stead – certainly he knew the story well enough - but he suspected there may be an art to entertaining Pippin, of which Frodo had the gift and he had not. 

‘One fine morning, in the quiet of the world, a hobbit was standing by his door—’ 

‘Toes neatly brushed,’ Pippin reminded him.

‘Toes neatly brushed,’ Frodo repeated obediently, ‘he was enjoying his usual after-breakfast pipe, when who should come by but—’

 _‘Gandalf!’_ was almost a squeal. 

Another wince, but this time it weren’t impatient huffing that Sam heard from would-be sleepers. In fact, when he took a peep, he’d have said it looked and sounded exactly like a fair few hobbits wriggling round in their blankets, the better to enjoy a tale expertly told (if subject to an amount of prompting now and again). With a grin, he snugged his face into his makeshift pillow and closed his eyes.

‘Gandalf,’ agreed Frodo, ‘and if you had heard only a quarter of what I have heard about him - and I have only heard very little of all there is to hear - you would be prepared for any sort of remarkable tale…’

Sam drifted into sleep on the quiet murmur of that most beloved of voices.


	19. Show Day the Third - Early

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pippin acquires new skills, Frodo and Sam are relieved of their charge, and tables are turned  
> Rating: solidly G

On the last morning of the Show, Sam awoke to the distinct feeling that he was being watched. When he opened his eyes, he could make out, in the canvas gloom of early dawn, Frodo facing him across Pippin’s still sleeping form. He was propped on one elbow - curls squashed to his face on one side and all askew the other – and not that much more than a careful breath away. 

As soon as he realised that Sam was awake, Frodo smiled and whispered ‘Good morning!’ 

‘Morning, sir!’ Sam whispered back. ‘He didn’t keep you going all night with Mr Bilbo’s story, did he?’ 

‘He didn’t admit defeat until the Great Goblin was dead!’ Frodo said ruefully, and Sam could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

‘That far? Goodness, you ought to be dead to the world still! You should stop here this morning, Mr Frodo, and get a bit more rest while you can. Master Pippin’ll likely be awake and in need of watching afore we’ve done cutting, any road.’

‘I shall be fine, Sam, and we can ask someone to keep an ear out for him. If he isn’t tired enough to sleep longer, then it’s just not fair - and I would rather come with you.’

And quick as that, Sam remembered the certainty he thought he’d found last night beneath his oak tree, and he hugged to himself the thought that Frodo may indeed be biding his time, just waiting for the right moment to _ask…_ The very idea had him grinning away like a lack-wit, let alone Frodo choosing to be with him once again. But Frodo smiling back at him were a blessing whichever way, and Sam resolved simply to enjoy it until events should bring him down to Middle-earth again or float him out amongst the stars of his imagining.

Hobbits all around them were stirring now, creeping quietly to the unlaced doorway where hints of bacon were already suggestive on the air. Sam had to be particularly prudent and discreet in sliding out of his blankets and into his breeches, setting aside the necessity for not disturbing the lad between them. Frodo's movements too were slow and chary, it being safer all round if Pippin stayed asleep as long as possible. The notion of Pippin loose in a hayfield, with scythes swishing all around and pitchforks plying fast as wink – well, it just didn’t bear thinking about and that were a fact. 

The matter of what would happen if he awoke whilst they were gone had still to be addressed, though. As they stood for the bacon being piled into their bread rolls to reach ever more generous levels, Frodo made sure to beg the favour of Mrs Smallpeace. Her serving spoons paused, a pair of rashers hovering even as Sam and Frodo awaited judgment. Immediately they apologised for troubling her, suspecting that - although experience of her own thirteen made her the ideal choice to spare an eye to Pippin - these few days of the Show may well be her one real respite of the year from her maternal duties, and that to ask for such help might even be seen as unfair. 

But the bacon landed comfortably with the rest, her agreement equally placid; for, she said, even for a lad like Master Peregrin you’d surely need only the one pair of eyes and not a round dozen and more, and it'd not be for so very long, if he woke at all.

Savouring the bacon, the tea and the morning, Frodo and Sam rode out to the cutting field side by side at the back of the wagon, toes dangling in crisp, cool air. Yestermorn’s cold misery was gone as surely as its night mist, for today had dawned fair and clear; and for Sam the sheen on the day was completed by the ease that had returned between them, the rhythm of working together regained. Together they cut and carried, walked behind the load and helped share out the sweet-smelling grass they’d gathered. And somehow, there didn’t seem a lot as needed saying, really; the occasional bump of shoulders or quiet smile were enough, right then.

Foraging done with, they made haste to see what might have gone awry in their absence. When all was quiet enough, with only an ordinary morning bustle around them, it seemed that Pippin’s midnight wakening might indeed have kept him abed longer. The scattered roil of their blankets told a different tale, however. They exchanged glances and went in search of Mrs Smallpeace; and if Sam’s fingers were rather tightly crossed behind his back… well, what Frodo didn't know wouldn't worry him.

‘You'd nobbut been gone ten minutes afore he were on the wander,’ Mrs Smallpeace reported, ‘and a good thing for you, too! If I’d known what I were letting meself in for, I’d have been after you hotfoot, with the lad tucked under me arm!’

The sternness of her voice (over a pair of almost silent but truly heartfelt sighs of relief) was belied by the twinkle in her eye, and indeed Pippin looked to be fully occupied and perfectly content, swishing the soap-cage through a bowl of hot water to work up a good lather for the next round of greasy plates, and singing cheerfully as he did so. He was swathed from foothair to chin in a floral pinny the twin of Mrs Smallpeace's own - made of oiled cloth from the way it repelled the generous splashes. A complicated criss-crossing of strings - front and back before they were tied in a firmly doubled bow where small fingers couldn't reach - said that this was the expert’s answer to keeping a hobbit lad’s garments respectable as far into the day as possible. 

‘Watch me!’ Pippin cried happily, and proceeded to demonstrate his skills. It was clearly for the best that GAFFS plates were of tin, for he was an unpractised washer-up at best and wielded the mop with some vigour. He had obviously taken to heart the dwarves’ advice in the tale he loved so well, repeating the verse over and over, though his little dishmop was scarcely a thumping pole, and no-one would ever have furnished him with the boiling bowl of which he warbled so lustily. The result of his zeal on anything remotely fragile would be quite as catastrophic as Bilbo could have feared (and was probably foremost amongst the many reasons that the kitchens at Great Smials were barred to Pippin). 

It seemed only fair to repay Mrs Smallpeace for her assistance in kind, for there were always more tasks than hands where hobbit-catering was concerned. They set to with a will, Frodo fetching while Sam carried - until Pippin’s enthusiasm for dish washing eventually yielded to the fun of flicking suds at anyone who passed by. A warning glance at each of them from Mrs Smallpeace and they were unravelling him from the useful pinny, offering sincere thanks, and taking Pippin right out of her way.

The Mistress had left a basket of towels and clothes for her son, and although the oiled cloth had stood valiantly against water, he was still wearing yesterday's garments which were somehow positively grimy. Quite how he'd managed it, Sam couldn't be sure, for Pippin had done naught much different from what he and Frodo had done, and _they_ hadn't ended up looking more like ragamuffins than not. But when Frodo suggested that they should smarten up before second breakfast, Pippin dug in his heels. 

‘I had a wash before I went to bed and I haven’t done anything to _get_ dirty since then - and with all that soapy water, I’m probably cleaner than you are!’ Sam had already thought, though not said for fear of tempting fate, that it were something of a wonder that only Pippin’s now quite wrinkly hands had met with the water; a natural grubby hobbitlad aversion, he suspected. ‘And _that_ water,’ he eyed the ewer Sam was raising over a bowl on the washing benches, ‘is _cold!_ ’

‘Well, yes,’ said Frodo, ‘but it will wake you up properly.’

‘I _am_ awake,’ Pippin insisted, ‘and I don’t _need_ another wash just yet, thank you.’

‘Mr Frodo allus washes in the mornings,’ Sam put in. ‘Never misses,’ he added, which might be stretching his own knowledge a bit, but he’d sometimes catch sight of Frodo at Bag End of a morning, whisking damply tousled from bath to bedroom in the dressing gown he’d had for as long as Sam could remember and maybe longer (which probably accounted for a trifle of skimpiness) or, on a couple of memorable occasions, in no more than a towel. Bag End towels might be large and fluffy, but even at a brief glimpse they still draped interestingly.

‘Try this!’ Frodo said, dipping his face suddenly into the bowl before him and blowing noisy bubbles.

‘Oh!’ Pippin said, as Frodo came up dripping. ‘Let me!’ He wasn’t tall enough to manage to bend into the bowl, so Sam picked him up, getting rather wet for his trouble when Pippin emerged breathless from a truly impressive series of bubbles and shook his sopping hair about him like a dog that had enjoyed a swim.

Frodo tossed the towel to them. ‘Sorry, Sam - I deserved that, not you!’

‘I’m _really_ awake now,’ Pippin announced. ‘Second breakfast? I’ve only had a teeeeny bacon roll as yet!’ The size he indicated with his hands completely belied the generosity of Mrs Smallpeace’s provision.

It hadn’t been so quick nor so easy as that by a long chalk, of course, but eventually all three were made respectable to greet the day and the meal. Mrs Smallpeace had seen to it that serving dishes heaped to overflowing were kept back for them, and from the looks of it, it’d be a struggle for three to finish even the half of what were there. They'd scarcely made much more than a good start though, when the rest of the Took family arrived at a rush.

‘ _Ma_ ma!' Pippin complained breathlessly as his mother squeezed him tightly to her bosom, with a careless disregard for the fork poised rather too close to her ear. ‘Let me _go!_ ’

The Mistress stepped back, obviously checking her son for damage now. Mr Paladin though, coming up directly behind her, seemed to be looking for such damage as might have occurred to the surrounding area.

Frodo laughed. ‘You didn’t _quite_ trust us with him, did you?’

‘Of course we did, dear! It’s just that we know what a handful he can be... Oh, thank you, Samwise,’ she added as Sam poured tea for her. 

He’d a fair idea that they’d skimped breakfast woefully, in their anxiety to reclaim their son, and set right whatever had gone wrong. Which it hadn’t, nohow, but they weren’t to know it. That were a poor way to start the day though, for any hobbit, so he set about filling plates for Frodo to pass around. Before he knew it, the two of them were at the centre of a Took family meal, with Pippin gabbling happily of all that he had seen and done and how very _good_ he had been, and his parents reiterating both thanks and wonder with appreciative digressions into the many excellences of Bilbo’s table and of his cellar, with compliments to Sam for Daisy’s spiced curd tart and May’s apple fluff; all interspersed with comment from the three lasses as to how nice it had been to see Bag End again and how beautiful the gardens were looking and whatever was that pretty brown-red flower that smelled so deeply of chocolate and did Sam know there was a nest of kittens under his shed and how glad they were that the old swing was still up in the orchard (even if two of them were really too old to enjoy it properly any longer) and…

Exchanging smiles with Frodo, he forgot to feel awkward in such fine company. It took him a minute or two, though, to get used to Mr Paladin calling the Mistress _Rose_ , knowing full well that her given name was Eglantine - then he kicked himself for missing the connection. There were no doubt of it that Rose were an easier mouthful, and he felt pretty sure the name meant that she reminded her husband of the delicate flower - or maybe of its wonderfully scented foliage - rather than its accompanying bristle of thorns. He’d never heard it used for her before, though; maybe much the same as it were really only the family as had ever heard Gaffer tease his Bell by calling her _Tinkle_. His wondering was cut short by the necessity of dissuading Pippin, as soon as he finished eating, from showing off his newly acquired skills with soap cage and dishmop, a new shift of penniless tweens having now taken over the task.

‘There, you see? I _told_ you that he would be perfectly safe with Frodo and Sam!’ 

By the time that Bilbo arrived - at a more sedate pace after finishing a full if solitary breakfast of his own, and bringing with him this morning Andwise Roper at the conclusion of his most satisfactory stay on Bagshot Row - the impromptu meal was over. Pippin’s parents - still full of gratitude and admiration, and declaring themselves eternally in debt to both Sam and Frodo - were preparing to take their son off into the Show. 

‘Well, you _could_ have been wrong,’ Eglantine said, defensively. ‘With Pippin you can never be sure of anything except that trouble _will_ arrive sooner or later.’

‘Bilbo, _wrong?_ Never!’ Frodo declared, and Sam was hard put to it not to laugh aloud.

Bilbo ignored the remark and pointed out loftily that Beechnut and the day’s provender were awaiting their attention, and that Mr Roper was hovering for a word or two with his nephew.

Sam turned, to find himself enveloped in an awkward hug.

‘Nay, but it’s bin a grand visit,’ Andwise said, ‘and I’m on’y sorry not t’ve seen so much of thee, lad, for our Ham’s reet t’be so very proud of thee.’

Sam blushed. He'd known that Gaffer quietly approved his gardening skills, but it were a different thing entirely to know that he’d boast of them to his brother. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Frodo and their glances crossed. Frodo was grinning broadly, seconding Uncle Andy’s words with a thumb up, and Sam’s heart swelled with pride and love.

‘Theer’s a bit o’summat for thee back at Number Three, lad - summat and nowt, but it were made wi’love.’ He cut off Sam’s attempt at thanks for, he said, it’d be more thanks than enough if Sam would give him a hand to get his belongings to where the rope stand awaited him.

‘Thank you again, Mr Bilbo, sir, for the lifts. Most truly appreciated, I assure you!’ 

‘You are very welcome, Mr Roper,’ Bilbo said. ‘Sam, you carry the basket for your uncle and Frodo can put our picnic and whatnot in the judges' tent. I’ll wait here with Beechnut and you can take him together.’

Andwise raised a hand in farewell and stumped off, knapsack on his shoulder, leaving Sam to follow with the wide and still mysterious basket. Its cover was snugged over the contents every bit as tightly as the last time he saw it, but he’d a fair idea of what might be in there now. Gaffer’d not have let his brother set off for home without a few samples of good garden produce to eat upon the way – Sam could smell the strawberry-apples already, and he knew there’d be peas and runners, whatever else, and likely tomatoes and them sweet black-purple plums an’all. The lasses would have tucked in cakes and pies aplenty, and probably a jar or three of preserves too, for it’d been a good year and the pantry shelves were satisfyingly full and to spare. The basket were a solid weight to heft and he wondered how they’d managed to get it into the trap at all. 

He didn’t pause for more than a quick word with Anson and Ham, knowing that Mr Bilbo and Frodo were both waiting; but when he returned, panting a little, Frodo was only just arriving, and Beechnut and the trap had already vanished.

‘A couple of the Bolger lads, in dire need of pence for a few last games and Rides,’ Bilbo explained. ‘They’re reliable enough, and I like to encourage enterprise. Well,’ he said then, ‘have you decided what you are going to do for the rest of the day?’ 

‘Not really, except that we have promised ourselves another Ride or two, and Til that we would go and watch Rafe’s turn in the Little Show - and _I_ am owed a toffee apple that I haven’t seen so much as a sniff of, as yet!’

‘B-but—’ Sam stuttered.

‘Well then, why are you lingering here when you have such a busy day ahead? Just remember, lunch at twelve sharp - keep an ear open for the bell. And you’d best be moving if you really want your toffee apples – once they’ve sold out, that’ll be it until next year. I seem to remember that the ones made at home never quite taste the same. Hmm,’ Bilbo sighed nostalgically. ‘It must be all of thirty years since I enjoyed a toffee apple – one grows out of them, you know.’

‘Nonsense! How can you possibly grow out of such a treat? We’ll bring you one,’ Frodo promised, turning to lead Sam away, still spluttering. ‘Oh, and by the way, Bilbo,’ he added over his shoulder, in rather _too_ casual a tone, ‘I think someone may be looking for you.’ 

His uncle regarded him with a deal of suspicion, alerted by the mischief barely concealed in his voice. With a smile that was _almost_ innocent, Frodo inclined his head to indicate the rapid approach of a stout and badly-dressed hobbit of indeterminate years but considerable determination about the face.

The delicate of stomach would indubitably blench at sight of her, most specifically those rendered unwell by the cordial juxtaposition of magenta with a rich egg-yolk yellow. And even a hobbit inclined to accept _that_ might understandably be a trifle discomposed by the addition of a straw hat, dyed to an insistent shade of green and decorated with a selection of long-stalked scarlet cherries which wavered uncertainly over the wearer’s left eye, thus lending a certain raffish charm to the whole ensemble. 

Paeony Broadbottom (who might have been designed by nature to marry into the family whose son she chose) was a consummate organiser. Even before she put widowhood and sincere mourning behind her, she had spent far more of her seemingly infinite time in organising other hobbits’ lives than she dedicated to her own (which went some way, said the charitable, toward explaining her dress sense). An extremely active member of the GAFFS Committee, she was considered on the whole to be a valuable asset, on the grounds that when Paeony Broadbottom made up her mind that something would be done, then done it would be, no matter the protestations of those called upon to actually carry out the project. (It may be noted here that it was for reasons far other than fear of her egregious fashion choices, that more than a few hobbits devoted a great deal of _their_ time to avoiding Paeony in the weeks preceding the Show.)

That she had, in this one respect at least, a great deal in common with her distant cousin Bilbo was exactly the reason, Frodo confided to Sam as they made their way toward the main aisles, that he had thought of the present ruse when his aunt several-times-removed had greeted him with a worried frown, just as he completed his errand. As soon as she revealed that the reason for her preoccupation was an unaccountable failure to put in an appearance by the hobbit who was to have judged the Bonny Baby competition, he had scarcely been able to restrain his glee. He asked, in the most helpful way imaginable, whether she had thought of inviting Bilbo to step into the breach, for, said Frodo, his uncle was at a completely loose end on this final Show day, and more than eager to find a way of making himself useful. (It may be noted _here_ , that Sam’s appreciation of a certain sublimely wicked smile, as Paeony’s gratitude at this suggestion was recounted, rendered his forward progress quite tricky for several minutes.) 

Sure enough, Bilbo was borne inexorably away, guided by an unrelenting hand over his flood of ineffectual excuses toward a waiting sea of female and infant hobbitry. From toddlers - held in check from rampaging all over the showground only, it seemed, by the reins held firmly in the hands of mother or capable sister - to squalling faunts with screwed up faces and remarkably powerful lungs, it was more likely than not that every hobbit on the Showground under the age of five awaited Bilbo’s judgment upon his or her claim to be the bonniest baby present today.

Frodo watched him go, with a satisfied grin. ‘ _That_ will teach him how it feels to be inveigled into taking part in things you’d really rather not!’ he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verses Pippin knows, loves and seeks to emulate may be found in _An Unexpected Party_ , chapter one of _The Hobbit_  
>  If you are discomposed by the smell of chocolate, please remember AU - and also _Victorian_ hobbits, to whom JRRT allowed tobacco and potatoes (and coffee and steam trains and Christmas trees and…) _Letter 178_ being specific as to time and place; the Diamond Jubilee was 1897  
>  The answer to Pearl's question (no, but it was) is [Cosmos Atrosanguineus](http://www.bbc.co.uk/gardening/plants/plant_finder/plant_pages/227.shtml) and Wiki is wrong (surprise...): it was 1835. A wonderful plant and well worth the effort of bringing it through the winter; it sets no seed and is believed to be extinct in the wild


	20. Show Day the Third - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rides are shared, Daisy’s warnings prove not unfounded and the Inevitable inches ever closer  
> Rating: *waggles hand and encourages imagination*
> 
> With another superb illustration by Notabluemaia

The jangle of the giant music box seemed much louder today, its cheerful invitation almost irresistible. Cajoling, wheedling, coaxing, it reminded all hobbits present on the Showground that today was their last chance for a Ride and that they’d better make the most of it. Neither Sam nor Frodo had any intention of resisting its call.

It seemed best to make a start at the Rides, to get in at least one before the worst of the day’s crowds had arrived. Frodo said quite firmly though, that Sam could try the Joywheel again if he liked but _he_ would sit that one out, for he’d not like to be so disrespectful to Mrs Smallpeace’s breakfast. Sam shook his head; setting aside the matter of disturbing his digestion, it just wouldn’t be the same without Frodo. They passed the wheel by, barely pausing to notice its accustomed scatter of hobbits in a fringe of flailing arms and legs.

The line for the swing-boats, though long enough, was rather shorter than they had expected and they reached the front more quickly than they’d thought. Since each boat would take four hobbits (so long as age and good cooking hadn’t yet got the better of any one of them), it was really no more than sense for pairs to team up or singles to merge with groups to fill each one. Turns came round far quicker that way, so as many folk as wanted could have a go or maybe two before the bell – at four on this final day – put an end to the fun. 

Sam found himself sitting beside Frodo, pulling rope against Lin Oldburrow and Daisy. This third turn was different again – neither the frenetic hauling to satisfy Pippin’s need for height and speed nor the dream-cushioned floating of their first. There was indeed some competitive pulling to start with but then, height gained, the effort from the other pair suddenly slackened as Daisy’s hand crept up to cover and thread with one of Lin’s, so they’d only the outside hand apiece to spare for the rope. Sam blushed red when she caught his eye with a look he’d have sworn were challenging. Daisy couldn’t _know_ just how much he’d have liked to do the same, could she? And with a nosey sister right there, let alone all them hobbits below, watching carefully to see when their own turns might come, he didn't dare to imagine even so little as _that_ , this time around. 

Then Frodo said that, to make all fair, _they_ should each use only one hand to pull, and his left hand on the rope slid down to meet Sam’s right and… Well, no-one could really make aught of that, now could they? Except that Sam would have sworn to a swiftly pointed look and the barest flutter of a wink from Daisy. He shifted his gaze to the swoop of Bywater’s far-off chimneys behind her, or the patched Green Hills away beyond Lin’s right shoulder, and just let himself _feel_ the warmth of Frodo's hand _almost_ clasped around his as they pulled steadily together. He didn’t dare look when she giggled aloud, to see whether she were laughing at him or if Lin had indeed stolen a kiss – and he definitely didn’t let his thoughts stray there, neither.

It hadn’t been what he’d had in mind for their second go, here, and despite the nearness of Frodo and the touch of his hand, he couldn’t be entirely sorry when it were over.

‘Where to next for you then, Mr Frodo?’ Lin asked as he guided Daisy carefully down the steps. 

‘With luck, a turn on the Merry-go-round.’ 

‘We had ours already. First place we went when we got here and even then we’d to queue a fairish while afore we made it to the front,’ Daisy said. ‘Did you manage a go yesterday?’ Sam thought there might be a bit of a point in her artless question, too.

‘I rode with my cousin Pippin, which made it twice as exciting – well, twice as noisy, at least!’ Frodo said as he stepped down to the well-trampled grass.

‘I’d a little lad called Ranly with me,’ Sam said, jumping the last two steps (a good deal more nimble in his descent than he had been after the first time, which could only be a good thing in the circumstances), and quite convinced that he weren’t imagining Daisy’s suddenly disappointed air.

‘Verbena Hurcombe’s little brother?’ Raised brows and a sharply inquisitive tone now - would she never give over? 

‘Now, _that_ I couldn’t tell you,’ he said, glad that it were truth and nothing less. ‘Copper-headed lass with at least a couple of older brothers?’

‘That’s the one – they live not far from Lin’s Aunt Tilda.’ Grimaces from both told Sam that it weren’t only Frodo as were unlucky in the matter of aunts, if nothing more of whatever else Daisy might be thinking.

‘Well, we’re off for a cup and a bite,’ Lin said. ‘I’d milking and all to do afore I came, and first breakfast were hours ago!’ Lin was of full age and had a good start to a proud hobbit belly on him already.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the crowd closed behind them. He said, heartfelt, ‘There’s times I could wish for fewer sisters!’ and Frodo smiled almost as if he’d an idea of the disquiet Daisy’s hints and looks were causing him.

‘You know, I think we might have done better to begin here too, Sam,’ he said, as they joined the ever-swelling queue for the Merry-go-round. A group of Basriggers had set up a perimeter rope today and were marshalling would-be riders along a roped alley, its start some distance from the Ride itself. It was the most sensible way to ensure that no hobbit took a turn unfairly - even place-holding would be frowned upon today except for the very youngest hobbits. Well, it’d keep the aisle from getting clogged up to glory right enough, Sam thought, but going by all the bits and bobs that Pippin had bought while they queued the day before, there’d be a fair few stallholders more than a bit disgruntled at the loss of their captive market.

The long, noisily expectant line funnelled slowly between the ropes, jostling and joking, each hobbit with at least a word or three to say of what he or she had seen or won or eaten at this year’s Show. To ease the waiting, clustered groups played I-spy, and when that became boring, a wave of thumb wars rippled along the line. It provided another nice opportunity to take Frodo's hand, though Sam found himself losing far more often than ever he did when playing against anyone else. 

When the mood of the queue suddenly changed to rock, paper, scissors instead, Sam couldn’t be too disappointed at the loss, for now he’d a proper excuse to stare into Frodo's face - to work out his next move from what he saw there. Since Frodo was looking right back at him, Sam’s hands moved more and more slowly as he rather lost the will to play. But if he was – in fact, they _both_ were – smiling rather a lot, well, so was everyone else, in anticipation of the Ride.

The wait hadn't seemed too long at all when the Basrigger in charge set aside the rope and a carefully assessed section of the line was permitted to surge forward in a ragged, eager wave, every hobbit intent on a seat if not on a particular pony.

‘Come on, Sam!’ 

Agile as the little monkey whose cage Pippin had invaded, Frodo scarcely waited for the Merry-go-round to cease its spin before he was up there, laying claim to a ferocious-looking stallion. Coal-black and haughty, it stalked the outer ranks caparisoned all in scarlet, with twirls and flourishes gilded everywhere there was excuse to paint them.

Its previous passenger was barely out of the seat before Frodo was astride, but Sam just stood and looked at Frodo above him. His left foot was so close that Sam could have stroked it in an instant, dark hair flowing lithe and silky over the carved red stirrup at the pony’s side. His gaze travelled up the swell of calf to a firmly muscled thigh gripping as tight in the saddle as if this had been a flesh-and-blood mount. Frodo’s hands reached forward, fingers threaded neatly about the barley-sugar-twisted pole. His face was alight and laughing, and in the mirrored pillar that held the centre firm, his white shirt and dark hair were reflected clear and again…

Somehow, Sam quite forgot to join the frantic scramble aboard.

Then it seemed that every pony already bore at least one hobbit, often two and sometimes three, the Ride packed tight to give everyone a chance. The sturdy team of pony power that moved this wonder was beginning its new circuit, and Sam remained on the ground, watching as Frodo began to draw slowly away from him.

‘To me, Sam! Jump!’ 

No second command was needed, for Sam was up and clinging fast to the pole before he’d even thought about it. 

‘Get up behind, Sam – you can’t Ride there like that!’ 

‘But, sir— ’

A bigger 'but' came in the person of the hobbit with the money bag. Obviously a Basrigger, he swayed easily towards them between his wooden charges, collecting pence as if he stood on firm ground. His brows were distinctly beetled against a would-be rider who was _not_ astride a mount. 

One look was sufficient to convince Sam that, whatever the propriety, he must obey; such disapproval would not long remain unvoiced. He paid over his penny, struggling meekly to hoist himself up onto the pony’s back. Frodo tendered his own dues, then hitched forward. A sudden jerk in the rhythm as a new set of cogs was engaged, a cautious hand flung out to Frodo’s shoulder to steady himself, a helpful tug - and Sam landed safe within the wooden saddle, Frodo tight before him.

No sooner was he in place than he’d to adjust himself with a discreet wriggle - one that he hoped, however unlikely, may go unnoticed by the hobbit in front of him - for there was suddenly rather more to accommodate than there had been just seconds earlier. This close to Frodo, the warmth and scent of him were almost overwhelming and Sam could no more avoid his reaction than he would deny his love.

He swallowed and thought hard about safety instead. He’d really need summat to cling to, and it’d be a stretch to reach that twisty, gilded pole. 

Frodo had the answer already. ‘Arms around me, Sam – I’ll not have you tumbling off because you haven’t a proper hold!’

On an indrawn breath Sam held as he was bid. Though not entirely sure that this would remain a _proper_ hold, he were nothing loath for now. He laced his fingers primly about Frodo’s waist and tried not to think too hard about what he clutched so tightly to him - that he had Frodo in his arms at last even if this weren’t quite the way or the reason of his dreams. No matter. He had Frodo here - could feel, snug against him, the rise and fall of his chest. He breathed in the heady mix of dust and sweat and excitement and a day at the Show, with that other he couldn’t name at all but would know amidst many a thousand to be always _his_ Frodo, even if Frodo didn’t know it. 

Sharing a pony was indeed as reckless a matter as Daisy had warned it would be. Yesterday’s Ride with Ranly - the long ago one with Frodo - each had been a Ride and nothing more. But now… they might again be sitting a painted pony, and the Merry-go-round was definitely doing its very same thing, but this were surely more akin to _cuddling_ \- and in full view of all!

They had gathered way without Sam even noticing; the spectators seemed now to sweep by, waving and calling to friends and relatives aboard as the latter waved and shouted back. For hobbits who rarely got to ride a pony at more than a sedate trot, this rushing glory of movement was a wonderful thing; the thrill from the wind in their ears and the giddying circles more exciting than almost anything else they could imagine.

But Sam’s excitement was far closer to hand, his spreading dizziness naught to do with the whooped happiness of others here. Had Frodo sat rigid and unyielding within the circle of his arms, Sam might have felt to be stealing his bright elation, deceiving Frodo, and guilt would heavily have tinged his joy. But Frodo was pliant against him, seeming almost to quiver beneath Sam’s careful hands, telling clearly his enjoyment of this Ride. He swayed with every shift of Sam’s body in their speeding dash around the one central point where mirrors flashed sunlight across every face, duplicating delight and spreading so much satisfaction. 

They were going so fast now, surely no one else would notice - and happen Frodo wouldn’t mind too much - if Sam laid his chin upon Frodo’s shoulder for it’d help him feel safer (apart from aught else). He held his head stiffly at first, for Frodo had obviously noticed the movement. But when he seemed to ease backward into Sam’s embrace, Sam let his head sink a little, tightening his arms (lest _Frodo_ should fall off at such a speed). They were so close, settled so tightly together in a carved saddle meant for only a single Rider - if a generously proportioned one - that Frodo could not fail to notice what was happening between them. But if he weren’t exactly going to nestle up to such incriminating evidence as to Sam’s state of mind, at least he didn’t squirm away.

_Oh!_

Well, if that weren’t a nestle, it were the nearest thing to one that Sam had ever felt. And, _oh my!_ The things that Frodo’s firm bottom _weren’t_ doing to Sam probably weren’t worth knowing about. He felt to be clasped – _held_ \- just _there…_ Sam’s remembrance skittered at once to a number of somewhat related scenes he had played out in dream – waking or sleeping - in the darkness of his room or of The Hill. More times than once, if truth be told, and proceeding a deal further for being conducted without benefit of clothing between. And if _astride_ had ofttimes been included in such action, _painted pony_ had quite definitely not. 

The greater part of his mind was hugging to itself every movement, every tremor, every sight and sound and scent and feel, knowing how frequently he would call upon them in the darkness of the weeks and months to come. The rest set itself the task of convincing him that Frodo may yet be completely indifferent to what lay between them now; that that had been no nestle at all but merely a wriggle designed simply to ease the discomfort he must surely feel, jammed here tandem in a seat designed for only one.

Frodo were probably just getting himself more comfortable. That would be it. Wouldn’t it?

‘Sorry, sir!’ Sam dared whisper. 

The other only other time he’d had such near access to Frodo’s ears was when he’d washed the porridge from his hair, and he’d been distracted by other sensations right then. Now that night-dark silk whipped its softly wisped caresses across his cheeks, his nose, his lips… and Sam was kissing it whether he’d have meant to or not, and oh, he did and it were as wonderful as ever he could have dreamed. But his attention lit wholly now on Frodo’s ear, that lay mere inches from his mouth – near enough for Sam to truly appreciate how delicately shaped it was, how pearly pink, how beautifully intricate, how very tempting the delectable tip when your lips were just _this_ close. 

And how, when you were really far _too_ close and breathed your _Sorry, sir!_ gently over it, that enticingly pearly tip flushed to a becoming red and Frodo shivered deliciously in your arms.

He almost missed Frodo’s low reply for the fact that he must turn his head to give it and their mouths had come so _very_ near to meeting. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, Sam!’ he said breathlessly, turning back again right quick – though not before Sam had seen the tell-tale raise of colour in his cheek, had felt the breath hitch just that bit faster in his chest.

[ ](http://photobucket.com/)

He _knew!_ He knew, and he didn’t mind!

 _Don’t_ necessarily _mean aught more, though, now does it?_ Sam reminded himself sternly. Just because Mr Frodo had a very forgiving nature, prepared politely to ignore what he might simply regard as tweenage over-enthusiasm, that weren’t no excuse to go reading into it what Frodo might still not mean, no matter how much Sam would wish him to. He were being kind enough to share his Ride with Sam, and that could be an end of it. 

Sam knew he was arguing against himself now, not _really_ believing his own doubts - needing so much to hope and fearing so very much to hope too far. And it took every single ounce of self control he’d never known that he possessed, to forbid his clasped hands a slow slide and settle, down low over Frodo’s belly, to see if he too… Even if it were just the excitement of the Ride as did it to him, Sam wanted to know, to feel… The only thing with power to stop him was knowing how very disappointed – stupid but true - how _hurt_ he would be if Frodo were to lie as quiescent as Sam _ought_ to be right now. 

And if he weren’t? If Frodo were to be as much aflame as Sam, would that really confirm what Sam so hoped it might?

But the wisping of dark caresses slipped soft and lower against his cheek now, and the faceless blur beyond slowed into shapes once more. Their Ride was ending – the time had come when Sam must relinquish what lay warm and safe within his arms. He was suddenly very aware that he’d been holding the Master’s heir to himself as tight and as fond as any lovelorn lad his lass aboard their pony here; and that there were far too many interested hobbits down there to be treated to such a sight. He schooled his hands outward to hold only Frodo’s hips and pushed himself backwards, very carefully, over the carved cantle and onto the pony itself – putting a correct but lonely distance between them. And he couldn’t help but hope that the slump of Frodo’s shoulders reflected his disappointment, not simply his own imagining.

Even before the movement had completely ceased, Sam began to clamber awkwardly from the pony’s back, and down from the platform to ground level once more. He was surprised to find that Frodo had not immediately followed him. Only now was he slithering from the black stallion, moving belatedly through the press of hobbits all eager to take their seats for the next swiftly circular journey.

There was a silence between them as they walked through the crowd and away from the Ride – but a silence of waiting, only, not of discomfort. Sam was unsure what he could say. _I really enjoyed that!_ or _That were good!_ might easily be taken the wrong way. (Well, the _right_ way really, but he couldn’t really blurt it out like that, now could he?) _Naught like the Merry-go-round for a bit of excitement!_ might be accurate for most hobbits, but definitely not for him right then (and he couldn’t help the hope that Frodo would be feeling the same. He rather thought that there may be evidence, when he stole a quick peep, that Frodo _was_ \- but mere friction could do that to a hobbit, choose how, and Frodo's reason still might not be Sam’s.)

He looked aside to Frodo, then quickly down as Frodo’s head began to turn towards him. Seconds later he _felt_ Frodo’s gaze flicker over him - and withdraw. Sam thought that _one_ of them ought to say something, but he had no idea how to say whatever it was that so very much needed saying - and he didn’t think that Frodo were about to _ask_ , right now, if indeed he meant to at all. He raised his head to see if Frodo might be about to speak, only to meet Frodo’s eyes – which shied away as quickly as his own.

Frodo took a deep breath, and Sam held his, waiting for what Frodo would say of this—of this _thing_ that was definitely happening between them now, with a will of its own, it seemed, no matter who might say it nay. Not that Sam were such a fool as to deny the pull that coiled around him, through him – spun and woven from his hopes and dreams. Wherever it would lead him, lead _them_ , Sam would follow, though the wreck of all lay at its end. A fall may be fathoms deep, but the other way… the other leapt up, swifter than any fantasy of swing-boats, eagles, stars, to Frodo - who was everything such dreams had ever promised to his waiting heart. 

But if it had its own will, it had its own time too, which seemed to be not yet. Sam held the knowledge inside him, warm and close and shivery. He knew how to wait.

‘We really ought to get those toffee apples before it's too late,’ was what Frodo actually said, and the smile they exchanged was purposeful but shy.


	21. Show Day the Third – Late Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which toffee apples prove more discomposing than expected, a promise is honoured and a nap taken
> 
> Rating: *invites you to guess*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the toffee apples are the real thing – the English variety, properly coated in a bright red sugar syrup, which sets hard; readers should disabuse their minds of the pallidly flabby versions to be found elsewhere  
> For those completely unfamiliar with Sheepdog trials, [this clip](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5q5SeHVHk_w) should give a fair idea of what Meg and Til were up to

Although trade at the stall was brisk and despite Bilbo’s warning, there were still plenty left on the wide, oiled baking sheets; shiny red chests puffed out in chubby rows, their sticks standing tall with an irregular smartness.

They reminded Sam more than a little of the Review of Shirriffs and Bounders, last Overlithe. Hosted by each Farthing in turn, once in the four years, the parade and feast were not only an opportunity for appreciation and thanks; they made it possible for local hobbits to meet all the new recruits to bounding as seemed the more needed with each passing year. When they lined up bashfully to receive the Mayor’s three official cheers, in varying degrees of height and girth, their staves had provided just such individual notes. Standing rather taller than its owner, each one slanted in a different direction - always at complete odds with the distinctive feather in his cap.

‘I wonder if I _should_ get one for Bilbo,’ Frodo said aloud as he accepted his reward – its stick at a decidedly jaunty angle - from Sam. ‘At least, I don’t wonder so much about buying one as about having to carry it around until next we see him. Even well-wrapped in greaseproof,’ he paused with a smile for the stallholder, who was poised to do just that, ‘I can still see myself getting rather sticky! Would it be possible for me to pay for it and collect it later, should you think? And if I don’t come for it by the time you have packed all away, then I forfeit all claim to it!’

It was an eminently satisfactory solution on both sides, and they left the stall carrying only a single apple apiece.

‘There’s a trick to getting through the toffee and into the fruit,’ Sam said, ‘without having to stretch your mouth so wide it looks like a barn door - if I could only remember it!’

Frodo raised his brows. ‘Perhaps we _are_ too old to really enjoy these?’

‘You speak for yourself, sir,’ Sam retorted. ‘It’ll come back to me, just you wait!’ He turned his attention to the sticky confection as Frodo watched with interest.

The coating was brittle, crisp and red, the promised treat thickly hidden, but Sam was not to be defeated. He licked exploratively around the widest part of the apple, savouring the dark, smoky taste, then laved back and forth across the flat top. Putting out his tongue, he pushed in to circle beneath the solid ridge where the toffee had run down and set hard upon the tray. Though it melted a little under the heat of his attack, gentling to his touch, still it refused him entry.

Sam licked and dabbed and nibbled, turning the stick this way and that in his hand, until his strong white teeth broke inward at last. As the fresh juice flooded into his mouth, cutting through the candied sweetness, he sucked it down greedily, with a _‘Mnnn!’_ of appreciation, turning to share his enjoyment with Frodo. But Frodo’s eyes flicked suddenly down to his own apple, as if it were a thing completely new to him, and all Sam could see were thick dark lashes on very pink cheeks, and nostrils flaring as if he had just run hard and was short of breath.

His own enthusiasm for the treat suddenly dimmed by entirely different cravings, Sam croaked, cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Aren’t you going to eat yours, Mr Frodo?’

‘What? Oh! Yes. Of course.’ Frodo lifted the toffee apple to his mouth – and Sam knew at once he had to look away. 

He pretended to a sudden overwhelming interest in what might be going on in the Show ring. But it transpired, when his vision cleared of rosy lips and an incipiently active tongue, that the current event - at this end, at any rate though Sam could see a line of hobbits shooting at the wand on the far side (and archery would have been infinitely preferable in this present predicament, he was soon to realise); no, the _nearest_ event was actually the grand final in which a pair of hobbits was battling it out for the title of Champion Wrestler. The ring within a ring was raised high – on a pair of wagons connected by planks, wider and squarer than he and Frodo had used for the Blindfold Breakfast - so the combatants were clearly visible, sweat-covered skin catching the light as they strained to and fro within each other’s grasp. 

More than that, they were exceedingly audible. Sam had never before appreciated how very evocative such breathy panting and effortful moans could be (not that _appreciate_ was quite the right word, here).

Most fortunately, at that very moment and from somewhere quite close behind, there came distraction and reprieve in one: a loud and prolonged sort of splash, a brief, waiting kind of silence, and then a despairing cry. 

‘Oh, _Pippin!_ ’ exclaimed a distinctly feminine, rather exasperated and definitely Tookish voice, though Sam couldn’t yet tell the sisters apart by that alone.

Seized by the same curiosity as many another hobbit, Frodo and Sam exchanged grins of relief that they need do no more than observe. They made their way across the aisle to the Catch-a-duck stall, where Frodo had won the handy little notebook, and Pippin had yesterday fished away several pence all unsuccessfully. Such was the scene of the present catastrophe, though no-one seemed quite sure how it could have happened. There were well-marked barriers customers were not supposed to cross – a nearer and lower one for youngsters, it was true - but still, Pippin and the vast washtub should never actually have met except from opposite ends of a rudimentary fishing rod. And normally, Pippin would have avoided so large a body of water as an instrument of torture for small and grubby hobbitlads. 

But the plain fact was that meet they did - in some hurried fashion witnessed by none, but which from the evidence had been something of a forceful and determined collision. It had left the one severely depleted, with a definite fringe of widely scattered infant ducks, and caused the other rather to resemble some half-drowned animal of a sort that had bright green eyes and peered wonderingly through curls now more mud- than sand-coloured (in drench-wet-through shirt and smallclothes). 

Summoned by some awareness known only to a mother, Mistress Eglantine appeared, to strip her son swiftly down and sweep him up into the folds of a vast towel. She was used to this, Sam realised, even _expecting_ it – hence the towel. Perhaps not the exact event as it had occurred – and was even now being annotated in great (and imaginative) detail by the hobbit who was reporting on the Show for the _Hobbiton Advertiser & Bywater Times_ \- but she had been on the alert. Only the _manner_ of its happening could be a surprise - that a mishap should occur at all was scarcely a shock now that Pippin was rising ten. And considering how long had been the interval of quiet - it was, after all more than a day since the incident of the spots - Sam was also unsurprised. 

The garrulously worried hobbit in charge of the stall was reassured over and again that it was no fault of hers; that any blame must actually lie with the lad’s sisters who it seemed - and quite contrary to all accepted practice - had taken their eyes from him for longer than a few seconds at a time; and that anyway, something of the kind was only to be expected of Pippin. She had just been the unlucky recipient of his attention this time. Mr Paladin produced his wallet and paid over a mutually agreeable sum in compensation, since Mistress Delverson could scarcely fill so large a tub again in time to profit from it at all, before the Show was over for that day and for the year. 

It appeared then that, for some odd reason, the usual basket of clothes had come already to the end of its resources. Pippin would have to be dressed - _like a complete shab-rag_ as Pervinca put it loudly and with some shame - in yesterday’s _filthy_ shirt and in breeches that were _not much better_. 

As Sam and Frodo watched, however, Verbena Hurcombe tentatively approached the group with Ranly securely in tow. She made an offer of some kind which seemed to be gratefully accepted, and guardianship of the lad passed firmly into Took hands. Verbena hurried off then, leaving her brother to stare wide-eyed and obviously extremely impressed by the devastation Pippin had achieved.

Sam closed his eyes for a second against the imagined havoc that would surely ensue were the two to join forces. The combination in friendship of a finely developed talent for unintended destruction, with a single-minded - and often successful - determination upon absolute freedom was not a thought to be taken lightly. When he opened them again, they met Frodo’s. The watery interlude had enabled each to finally dispose of his toffee apple in relative calm, and what passed between now them was mostly relief, that nothing of the sort had happened while they had charge of Pippin (the incident of the monkey being scarcely worth a mention); with some amusement, and a _not on our watch_ satisfaction that bordered on smugness.

The bell echoed out across the field, then, and a hobbit appeared, just inside the gate nearest to where they were standing. Possessed of an extremely impressive set of lungs, he made a bold and not entirely unsuccessful attempt to inform the entire Show-field of the imminent commencement of the Supreme Sheepdog Championship.

Frodo and Sam looked at each other. ‘Til!’ they said in chorus, reminded of the unfulfilled promise to watch his and Meg’s attempt to improve upon their showing of last year. They had missed the heats – they must not miss the final.

A small but interested stream of hobbits was making for the outermost of the GAFFS fields. Not an easy one to mow, it was kept as pasture, for it dropped steadily down to a shallow beck that ran away toward Combe Bottom. It was a good test for a dog - and of the shepherd’s control - for the steep slope gave the sheep every excuse to break into a run should the dog not have settled them properly.

Beyond the beck lay a small spinney, a drystone wall marking its boundary, though the wall showed several tumbledown gaps in its length. Sam smiled a little at remembrance of his younger self, watching the trials here for the first time. He’d been quite prepared to up and offer his services at walling, after all was done (for he’d a fair hand at it, even then), before he realised the wall had actually been deliberately dismantled in places. White-painted posts clearly marked the passage through and back again the sheep must be made to take.

Here at the top of the slope with a good view of the course, a long line of straw bales was thoughtfully provided as seating for spectators. Frodo and Sam claimed one for themselves at the farthest and quietest end.

The names of all six finalists, hobbit and dog, were chalked already on the board, and Til and Meg would run next to last. The competitors were all gathered to wait their turns a fair way from where Sam and Frodo sat, but Til saw them there, and smiled and waved back his thanks for their dumbshow of good luck wishes.

From being a little lad, Sam had watched shepherds and their dogs work the sheep, and the fascination had never yet failed. He still found it remarkable that a hobbit could whistle commands to his dog even a long hillside away, and a wide scatter of dots would be gathered neatly into a curdled mass of white; more remarkable still that the dog could so easily translate sounds meaningless to Sam and set a palely bobbing ribbon flowing over the rough ground - a fluid blur on its way to exactly where the shepherd needed them. A waving tail and lolling tongue told clearly then, not only of a job well done, but of one that had been enjoyed and had left him or her ready for more.

Word was given then, and the first pair began their run. Sam watched intently as the dog streaked off at its master’s command and yet dropped to a crouch in an instant to his whistle. He admired again the control with which a dog must wriggle forward so cautiously – slink, drop, slink, drop – so careful not to panic the ewes in the all-important first contact. 

Though he’d watched many a trial in his time, still Sam couldn’t always tell more than the obvious things for which the judges would mark a pair down. A scatter at any time must clearly mean the loss of maybe a handful of points; an indirect line of travel that wavered uncertainly along rather than moving steadily forward would drop at least one and maybe more; a miss at the gate, only three of the five sheep going through the gap, perhaps, and a couple would be deducted; and an awkward sheep in the group was almost guaranteed to cost, unless the dog had a strong eye and the patience of an elf. But the really fine distinctions between one dog’s work and another’s – on which a championship such as this must rest – still eluded him. He suspected that, like the judges, you had to _be_ a shepherd and simply _know_ ; much as there were things he understood about his plants only another gardener could ever truly appreciate. 

After each section of the run was completed, the judges would signal to the hobbit in charge of scoring, and the points for that part were written in the appropriate square on the board. When the final penning was achieved, the overall score was quickly totalled and credited to the competitor’s name.

With the second pair about to begin its run, Sam heard a loud yawn and turned to see Frodo slither gracefully from their bale. He settled on the grass at Sam’s feet, back leaning against the straw, legs straight out in front of him.

‘Sorry!’ he said, around another yawn. ‘I know this is dreadful of me, but Til’s turn won’t be for a while yet, and sitting down has reminded me how tired I am after last night. I simply can’t keep my eyes open any longer. Wake me in time, will you, Sam?’ He wriggled a little, to get comfortable, and his head began an inexorable sag downward to his chest.

‘O’course, sir. You get a few winks in while you can - you’ve earned ’em, one way and another!’ Sam agreed, distracted by an almost constant whistling from the new competitor; that’d cost him a point or two if Sam weren’t mistaken – the dog didn't look, even to an outsider, to _need_ that sort of niggling at him all the time. But then such sounds lost all significance as Frodo’s nodding head dipped lower and nearer, and came to rest at last against Sam’s thigh. His attention snapped at once to the warm weight, and the fall of shining hair that spread softly along his trouser leg.

Before he could think better of what he was doing - and stop himself - Sam reached a tentative finger to stroke it. Frodo surely wouldn’t feel it – hair was not sensitive, after all. But at his touch Frodo seemed to nestle even closer, and Sam saw a sleepy smile curl at the one visible corner of his mouth. Sam threw caution to the winds, then, and rested his whole hand on the darkly silken mass, stroking almost imperceptibly, just above his collar. Frodo made a small noise, a quietly contented _‘Mmm…’_ that faded into slow and steady breathing.

Sam liked the thought of sitting guard over his master as he slept; he'd definitely have a sharp word for any who tried to wake him afore it were needful, that were for sure. Tenderness welled up within him, even stronger than the desire aroused by Frodo’s mouth being where it was, slightly open, very pink and damp against the fabric of Sam’s breeches; by the huff of Frodo’s breath flowing sweet and warm, right through the weave onto truly receptive skin.

But Frodo would have a damp bottom when he awoke, no matter how dry the grass might seem, Sam thought with a rueful smile, gently drawing aside a wisp of hair that seemed, from the intermittent twitch, to be tickling at Frodo’s nose. And that were aside from the cross-hatched pattern he’d likely have imprinted on the smooth skin of his cheek.

He found he could still appreciate seeing the dogs put though their paces. The steadily whistled progression of their moves formed a soothing background to his thoughts of Frodo, and of what Sam hoped this affectionate leaning might mean. He’d _needed_ to sleep, that were for sure; but he had _chosen_ to sleep tucked up against Sam. It might be true that Sam’s leg must feel a lot less spiky to rest on than a bale of barley straw, but he doubted that were the reason. He was fairly sure he understood it, now, and allowed himself to float in a daydream of resting quietly with Frodo like this, maybe one day when they would earn their sleepiness together, in a place more private and an activity far more intimate. 

But all too soon the fourth dog was attempting the final task - the Pen - with his small band of sheep. Til’s turn would come just as soon as this pair’s marks were totted up and chalked on the board for all to see.

‘Mr Frodo? Sir?’ Sam put a hand to his shoulder and gave a small shake. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you did say…’ 

For a moment Frodo did not respond, but then he rolled back his head – still leaning against Sam - and opened his eyes with almost the same wonderfully drowsy smile he’d given after his impromptu nap on their way here. Almost – it being upside down now, of course - and Sam was _almost_ sure this one was truly meant for him. He’d started to lose himself in it when a burst of clapping brought back to him the reason he’d woken Frodo and earned himself such a smile. Unfortunately, it also brought an awareness of the applauders on the next bale or two along, who might turn their attention closer to hand while there were naught else much to see. That softly lingering smile, unfurling from sleep to greet Sam alone, and the warmth in Frodo’s eyes – these were too precious to share with any casual onlooker.

He swallowed. ‘It’s Til’s turn next, sir, with Meg - and you said you’d not want to miss it.’

‘No, indeed!’ Frodo said, still with a yawn. He hauled himself up from the ground, plucking at breeches now clinging clammily to his seat and the backs of his thighs. ‘Errgh! You'd think I'd know better!’ 

Sam gave a sympathetic grin as Frodo sat upon their bale once more, and forbore to mention the warm pink marking, so plain upon his nearer cheek. There were naught as could be done about it, choose how; and until it faded, Sam would enjoy a secret satisfaction that – if only in a small and very temporary way – he’d marked Frodo with a part of himself.

A new cluster of sheep was assembled now, down by the beck; the hobbit in charge of them raised his hand and waved. Both Frodo and Sam turned to see Til, waiting at the top of the course for the judges’ word to begin. He was looking all around with a slightly anxious expression, and both of them sent him the thumbs up. He smiled back, a little, but his anxiety did not ease until there suddenly, hurrying a careful way through the spectators, Sam saw the one he sought. Til raised his head at once and looked right at Rafe - a long look passed steadily between them, telling of allegiance, of encouragement and of love.

 _Well_ , Sam thought, _that’d be worth at least two steps up in the placings, if it were me, and my Frodo’d given me a look like that!_

And then he realised that, on the night of the skittling, Frodo _had_ given him just such a look, along with the _Good luck!_ raise of his ale mug. Sam had not seen what Frodo tried to tell him, being all too tied up in his jealousy that Frodo should be torn ’twixt friendship and the love of a lass. _Sam, you ninnyhammer – how could you have missed it?_ Small wonder Frodo should seem so hurt when Sam gave the game to Betony!

But a voice called ‘ _Off!_ ’, and Til was already saying ‘Come bye!’ to Meg. 

She was ready and eager – knowing exactly what they were here for; away she sped to the left, taking the slope in a wide arc, tight to the ground. Drawing level with her handful of ewes, she cast them one swift measuring glance, and ran carefully on to come at them from behind, dropping to her belly at Til’s whistle.

‘That was the Outrun?’ Frodo asked, looking at the scoreboard where it was the first category for _T. Oldacre + Meg_. 

‘Aye sir. The dog has to get down to the sheep and behind them, without alarming them. They know she’s coming, o’course, she just has to seem not at all like a threat.’ They watched briefly as the hobbit in charge of scoring drew a careful 19 in the square waiting to receive it. 

‘Out of twenty? Why did they lose a point?’ Frodo asked curiously, but Sam had no idea.

At Til’s whistle, Meg inched toward her ewes in a silent slink, and before they could realise it, they were already gently on the move toward him.

‘And collecting them up like that was the Lift,’ Frodo said, more in confirmation than question, as a chalked 10 was awarded.

‘Full marks for it, too! It can be tricky, can that – one of the dogs that ran while you was asleep somehow managed to panic his ewes right from the start. They skittered off at such a pace and in so many directions, there were no settling ’em even when the poor dog had got ’em together again.’

‘How embarrassing for the shepherd!’

Sam nodded. He’d squirmed a bit on the poor lad’s behalf, himself; not a hobbit he knew, but he’d felt for him nonetheless. Still, he weren’t so old – maybe not even quite out of his tweens, Sam guessed - and nervousness only to be expected. He must have the makings of a real shepherd, though, or he’d not have got through the heats at all. There’d be many more trials for him and his dog, other times and places - if none quite so prestigious as at GAFFS. ‘For the dog, too, sir – you could tell he felt just as bad about it. They’d to withdraw, once it were obvious the sheep had got too flighty for points to be won without a struggle, and even then they’d not have stood a chance against the rest.’

Ah now, but here was a problem for Meg, too. She’d been unlucky enough to draw a balky ewe in last year’s final - and it seemed history was bent on repeating itself. 

One of the five, a large Southfolk Blackface, suddenly declined to be part of the steady uphill walk. First she dawdled a little, then dared to turn and face Meg – in a direct challenge to the dog’s authority. Even at this distance Sam could see the clash of their wills. But last year, Meg had been young and inexperienced in the ways of defiant sheep; now, she had the confidence that comes of much practice, and Til’s guiding whistle was all the spur she needed. She didn’t rise from her crouch, didn’t even seem to move - just set her eye against the ewe’s defiance. And without any outward sign at all, challenge, rebuttal and Meg’s ascendancy were plain to see - for the heavy ewe backed slowly away from the confrontation and, however unwillingly, rejoined the group still moving to where Til awaited them.

‘Thic were well done, very well done – there’s many a dog as’d’ve teken a grip on thic’ewe.’ A loudly knowledgeable voice seemed to speak the quiet approval now rumbling along the line of spectators. Sam knew that for a dog to take hold was an admission of failure, and marked down most severely. But then the voice added with a gloomy kind of relish, ‘’Er’ll ’ave more trouble yet wi’ thic’un, you mark my words – _and_ she’s one for sheddin’, an’ all!’ 

‘Shedding?’ Frodo looked his question at Sam.

‘Aye, sir – naught to do with garden sheds, though! See the two with red collars? Shepherd and dog together have to _shed_ – cut out - one or other of ’em, right away from the group, just afore they pens ’em for the finish. Just now - up until they come round that post – and Til, o’course,’ Sam added, since Til was standing so close to it that to circle one without the other would have been a trickier move than could be expected of any dog, ‘up to then, it’s the Fetch but as soon as they pass him, they're into the Drive.’ Points for Meg’s Fetch put 17 onto the board.

‘Out of?’ 

‘Twenty,’ Sam said. ‘I wonder why? I’d not have said any other dog could deal with that ewe better nor what Meg did.’

Frodo shook his head in equal disbelief and turned back to watch the Drive. At Til’s whistle, Meg sent her ewes steadily downhill, weaving smoothly to and fro behind them to bend their path toward and straight through a set of widely spaced hurdles.

Obediently then, they leapt the stony bed of the beck, and climbed the slope to one of the tumbledown gaps Sam had worried about in his youth. Here was a real chance for things to go amiss, for Meg must send them through the one and a goodish way along the far side of the wall, before bringing them back through a second - and there were several others they should _not_ take. For that short while they were out of Til’s sight and he must trust completely to her initiative, whistling the forward command, for encouragement. When the small band of ewes appeared again - when and where they should be, moving easily forward and still under proper control - Frodo and Sam were not the only ones to let out a sigh of relief apiece. 

Sam glanced across to where Rafe stood, his gaze flicking constantly from Til to Meg and back, and he could almost feel the silent encouragement willing them on. Til would not dare take his mind from the task to return the look, but he knew Rafe were there for him every step of the way, and that'd be what mattered. He’d looked more settled, Sam thought, more confident from the very minute Rafe arrived. He and Meg were doing right well so far, and there weren’t that much further to go now, as he whistled her to bring them steadily back up the slope to where the wide shedding ring was marked out on the grass by regularly spaced heaps of bright sawdust. 

It had maybe been going a bit _too_ smoothly, Sam thought apprehensively then - for they’d dropped nobbut a couple of points on the Drive and the figures on the board looked right promising. Now though, just as Til brought Meg around, her sheep collected neatly within the ring, the rebellious one turned and stamped at the bitch, threatening an escape that would rapidly take her sisters with her. 

‘Never seen a ewe do that afore, without she’d lambs on her!’ Sam said in a worried tone - a disastrous downhill scatter being all too likely, were she allowed to get away with it.

‘What did I tell ’ee?’ demanded the knowledgeable one, loudly. ‘ _Now_ us’ll see what she’m made of!’

But Meg was made of better stuff than that doubting voice gave her credit for. She crouched, staring without the trace of a blink. The ewe looked around her and shifted uneasily; she took a slow step back, and then another. One more and she had capitulated completely. Meg knew it, and there was triumph in her wiggle forward to neatly cut the awkward one out from the bunch. She held the ewe aside at Til’s command, then returned her to the group, gathering them all now toward the Pen.

Til walked over to take up the rope and swing open the gate. He looked quietly confident standing there, but Sam knew him well enough to see the tension in him - and not without reason. Anyone who’d watched trials at all had seen more than one pair that’d looked to have a rosette within their grasp defeated by this last, essential manoeuvre. A hobbit - even with the rope in one hand and his crook in t’other - were at best a leaky barrier to guide sheep anywhere if they’d a mind to escape. 

For a single moment, it looked as if that same ewe might cause a problem once again, but Meg gave her no time to set up a further confrontation. She circled the other four behind the rebel and sent them forward, leaving her no choice but to lead the way meekly into the pen. Til swung the gate shut fast behind all five and bent to give Meg a rough hug before coming up to see his score on. For now, at least, he led the board.

Sam saw Rafe’s wide, proud smile as Til reached him. The hug they shared was about as rough as Meg’s had been, and swifter, but Sam could tell there’d be a proper celebration later, when they’d time and darkness in which to share it. For now, Rafe melted from sight as Til’s family came forward with their congratulations.

‘Tilsom Oldacre’s none so bad a shepherd,’ the doubter pronounced judiciously now, from somewhere close at hand, ‘and maybe he does deserve the top mark as yet. But Si Tidmarsh has worked the sheep, day in day out, these fifty year an’ more. The lad’ll not beat that.’

Those years showed on Shepherd Tidmarsh, his thatch of dark hair well-laced with silver as he stepped forward with his dog; Bob moved like a youngster, though, and that was what was needed. Each of them knew the job inside out, and they gave a demonstration of control and expertise that was quite simply unbeatable. When they had done, with an almost perfect score, Til was the first to congratulate him on his win. It was clear he could feel no shame in coming second to an absolute master of the craft.

The noon bell had rung out some time ago, but not a hobbit had left the field, too engrossed in the contest before them. Now, though, the applause for the Champion pair was heartily brisk, as spectators and competitors alike gathered themselves rapidly back toward the main Show-field and wherever lunch awaited them. There was barely time for more than a quick word of congratulation with Til – and a promise to meet him later at the Little Show – before Frodo and Sam must hurry off to find Bilbo. Even if he made a start without them, Frodo assured Sam, the picnic basket he’d set in the shade of the judges’ tent that morning had been quite _promisingly_ heavy, so there should be plenty left. It seemed a very long time since the toffee apples, and longer still since Mrs Smallpeace’s splendid second breakfast.


	22. Show Day the Third – Noon and After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a truce is called, lunch is consumed and Frodo and Sam sample the delights of the Show within a Show
> 
> Rating: *sigh*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A geek's apology: No sooner had I discovered that the Traveller lass’s last trick in circus terms is known as _Ro **M** an riding_ than the temptation to adapt it here became overwhelming. (Think of it as reciprocation for _Holbytlan_ , perhaps!)

But Bilbo was not bustling about with plate, dish and spoon; instead they found him ensconced within an arrangement of straw bales closely resembling an armchair - the work, Sam suspected, of another penniless tween or two. His face was red, half hidden by the generous froth brimming up and over the sides of a mug of ale from the beer tent. He shook his fist at his nephew - it seemed Mistress Broadbottom had enlightened him as to whom he must thank for his elevation to the status of Assessor of Infant Pulchritude - but he couldn’t manage to dim the twinkle in his eye when Frodo half-quoted at him his cajoling words on the subject of the Blindfold Breakfast.

‘Nothing to it, Bilbo. You just… look at a few babies.’ Frodo emulated the way his uncle had waved his hands airily, as he’d sought to divert Sam’s natural suspicion before the episode of the porridge. ‘ _As easy as that_ \- that _was_ how he put it, wasn’t it Sam?’

‘More or less, sir!’ Sam spluttered a laugh, torn between respect for his elders, amusement at Mr Bilbo’s embarrassment, and complete admiration for the way in which Frodo had so neatly turned the tables on his uncle. But today’s picnic basket was waiting on a second arrangement of bales, and Sam’s stomach couldn't be the only one insisting he get a move on and unpack while he listened.

‘Frodo Baggins, you are a terrible rascal!’ Bilbo said, having imbibed sufficient from his mug to be restored enough to speak at all. ‘Do you realise I have just made enemies of at least half the goodwives of the Shire? _No_ amount of reasoning could convince them they can’t possibly _all_ have the bonniest babe. And I didn’t _know_ the one I picked in the end – I was getting so desperate, I chose completely at random on the basis of chubby cheeks and the fact that it wasn’t wailing at me. It turns out it’s a Baggins cousin twice removed, or something - I’m so flustered I couldn’t even tell you on which side of the family, let alone whether it was a lad or a maidchild. But I do know my reputation for fairness will never recover - I shall be held to be a partial judge evermore. For this you owe me another ale at least, if not two!’

‘But Bilbo, if that’s true, you need not be forever importuned to judge this, that and the other – I have given you the perfect excuse!’ Both Frodo and Sam knew very well that although Bilbo might grumble a little at each and every request for his services, he secretly enjoyed it. He liked knowing that despite his reputation for oddity his judgment was widely trusted – as it would be still. Frodo smiled sweetly at his uncle and put out his hand. ‘Evens?’ he said.

‘Evens!’ Bilbo conceded with a grin as they shook hands on it and turned their minds instead to the lunch Sam was setting out for them.

Their picnic was quite obviously enhanced by dainties left over from the previous evening’s dinner with the Tooks. Certainly there were thick and juicy slices of beef, a trifle pink from being cut close to the bone; and the chicken piled generously into bread rolls looked more like strippings than slices, but it was still tender and tasty, needing the merest hints of applesauce and sage stuffing to complete its excellence. Likely, though, Mr Bilbo had given orders for extra dishes of the apple fluff, its cream softly whipped so it shouldn’t run out; and for more of the spiced curd tarts that were his own particular favourites – Bell’s recipe, of course, kept alive especially by her eldest daughter.

As they ate, Frodo made some amends for his uncle’s discomfiture with a description of the Sheepdog Championship. No-one would have believed he’d slept through a good half of it, Sam thought, the way he could describe it so clearly and in such detail. And at least it were the worse half he’d missed, for there’d been as fine a display of shepherding from winner and runner-up as any hobbit could hope to see.

When Frodo mentioned Rafe being there in support of Til and Meg, Sam could practically see him itching to ask if Bilbo had spoken further with Bill Swire – and a stubborn determination not to allow his uncle the satisfaction of calling him young and overly eager for quick results, yet again. But when Sam looked at Mr Bilbo, he rather thought the returning twinkle proved he knew exactly what Frodo were after. He’d tell, if there were aught worth telling, in his own time - and maybe there weren’t, since Mr Bilbo offered not a word.

No sooner were plates empty and bellies contentedly full than the bell rang across the field once again.

‘One o’clock already!’ Bilbo said, settling back with a pipe and showing no sign whatever of heeding the peremptory call for at least as long as this fill of Old Toby should last. ‘I’m sure cutting the last day up into hours actually makes it run away more quickly, you know.’

‘The bell's like a sheepdog for hobbits - a _hobbit_ dog! - chivvying us on to make sure we get where we’re going before the Show ends! And _we_ had better start moving, too!’ Frodo said, passing the last of the plates to Sam and whisking crumbs from the cloth on which they’d rested. Sam used it then to wrap the plates securely, and wedged them into the picnic basket with the mugs and empty wine bottle.

‘If you want to be sure of seats, I should say so. Leave the rest, I’m sure there’ll be more impecunious tweens passing, before long.’ 

‘We’ve nearly done.’ Frodo rounded up the cruet and a wandering spoon or two, and Sam slipped them in with the rest, closing the lid over all. ‘What do _you_ have in mind, Bilbo?’ 

Sam looked up quickly. There were a definite hint of _something_ in Frodo’s voice now - he just weren’t quite sure what.

‘Oh, a little of this and that,’ Bilbo said vaguely.

Sam knew Mr Bilbo liked just to walk the aisles of the show, as he liked to walk the byways of the Shire. It was how he earned his reputation for omniscience. He’d pause often for a word with a farmer in his field, the craftsman in his workshop - or the holder minding his stall here. But folk liked to see him, Sam thought. He were almost a bit of walking history himself, wherever he went, and he’d been coming to this Show for as many years as most hobbits could expect to live to. It’d not be quite the same once he were gone, and that were a fact. Sam hurriedly crossed his fingers against the thought, uncurling them to strap up the picnic basket.

‘Well, we’ll be off, then. Oh, and Bilbo?’ Frodo turned as though on an afterthought. His tone was somehow both sly and eminently reasonable; suspicion leapt immediately into his uncle’s face. 

‘Yes?’ he said, guardedly.

‘I heard somewhere that Paeony is now short of a judge for the Junior Fancy Dress this afternoon - I’d make myself scarce if I were you. Keep moving would be my advice!’ Frodo grinned - probably with the same degree of wickedness which had caused Sam such turmoil earlier, but walking beside him meant Sam missed the full force of this one and was able to smile himself at the thought of Mr Bilbo spending the next hour and more avoiding Mistress Broadbottom. The improved state of affairs was undermined somewhat, though, by Frodo’s added whisper, right close to Sam’s ear, to the effect that Bilbo would at least see her distinctive ensemble approaching from several dragon-lengths away.

They were caught up into a brisk flow of hobbits, now, all making for the huge tent at the far edge of the field. It was set between the busy aisles and main ring of the Show proper, and the small encampment of Travellers, who tended to be clannish and keep themselves to themselves. For this Little Show was all their own; not even Bilbo Baggins had heard of a custom quite like it elsewhere than in the Shire.

The GAFFS committee provided a tent and banks of seating to surround a circle, for which fair rent was paid; entrance money being shared equally among performers and those who worked behind the scenes. It was a matter of honour amongst Travellers to have extra skill or two, paticularly useful to bring in coin when there was little hunting to be found, the weather was icily bleak, and the ground too iron hard for any useful task around farm or rickyard - for any farmer to be needing casual work at all. And at times, maybe, the winter tasks of hedging, ditching and walling were just a mite too cold and wet - week in, week out - for any hobbit to stand by choice. 

Different skills would just as surely bring in the pence and food to fill a hobbit’s belly, if instead a Traveller family arrived in town or village and came to terms at the local inn. A clever proprietor knew such talent as they possessed, however small, must fetch in patrons eager to quench a thirst brought on by mouths hanging open in wonder at some of the feats on display. A show of tumbling, maybe, or knife-throwing or fire-eating, perhaps with a spot of fortune telling on the side. But nowhere other than the Little Show - at GAFFS or GABS - were so many of the best to be witnessed at one time. 

Of course, there were fascinations beyond the _skills_ to be seen here. Quite noticeable amongst the family groups and couples were clusters of teen and tween lads together. They clapped and cheered each act as much as any, but it was beyond question that they came most eagerly to see the Traveller lasses in their gaily spangled costumes. With skirts so short as to be barely skirts at all, and bodices cropped to display both midriff and the gentle swell of breast, they revealed far more than was usual for any decent Shire lass. (What was even further beyond question – as was rapidly discovered by more than one local lad who sought to extend his acquaintance beyond the Show - was that, out of costume, these same lasses were both strictly guarded and at least as proper as any other they might meet.) 

The rows of seats were filled to overflowing for every performance, even with so many youngsters packed onto the grass around the ring. Sam and Frodo found themselves climbing to the topmost tier, passing and exchanging smiles or quick words with many a hobbit they knew, until they found places together at last - and none too soon, for even as they sat, the band struck up. It was not, of course, a _real_ band, such as the Michel Delving Silver Band, the Frogmorton Brass Players, or the many smaller ensembles based at most local taverns. Here, it was merely a collection of hobbits who could play together, Traveller and others alike; enthusiasm and a drummer with a fine sense of the dramatic were their greatest assets.

First into the ring, as ever, came the clowns: two of them, noses red-bobbled and mouths painted to excessive white-and-scarlet smiles. They’d literally mops for hair - one dyed blue, the other yellow with a tiny hat perched on top, an elongated scarlet feather wavering a circle all around it. Their clothes might once have belonged to Men, they were so huge. One had a wide-lapelled jacket that came down to his ankles, the pockets set below his knees; the other an oversized shirt encircled by brightly yellow-checked trousers that billowed about his waist, held up only by red and black striped braces. (They’d have been ideal for the ferret-legging, Sam thought, given a good strong belt and a couple of ties of baling band.) 

On their feet were boots - but not boots such as Marish folk might wear in muddy weather. These boots were even more outlandish, being nigh on as long as each hobbit was high. From the clack they made, Sam reckoned they were carved from wood and only painted shiny black; whichever, they needed a lot of care in the walking. And every year he’d start off thinking a hobbit as tried to run in them were likely taking his life into his own hands (or feet); and every year he found himself proved quite wrong afore that Show were over. 

Sam and Frodo exchanged a grin as they settled down to watch the silliness; no matter how old you got, the clowns always managed to tickle your sense of humour, one road or another.

These two were funny without ever a word spoken between them, only squawks and hoots and whistles, with the odd sharp exclamation of sorrow or of triumph. They _needed_ only sound and gesture, and the audience loved their antics – even those who'd probably claim they’d long outgrown such foolery. Between each of the acts, they played silly tricks on each other, setting hobbits old and young into stitches of laughter. They tripped one another, squirted water copiously from huge flowers pinned to their chests, and chased each other (quite slowly but still successfully) with custard pies that somehow never quite found a home. At times they tried to copy the true performers – always defeated by their outsized clothes and massive footwear. Sam had an inkling, though, that the falls they took were as clever in their way as any of the acrobats’ more accurate tumbles; that without the need for laughs they’d prove nowhere near so unhandy after all. 

Baggy-trousers bustled about importantly with a broom now, and set to preparing the ring with wide, sweeping strokes; his companion brought out a rug which he unrolled in the centre of the ring. It was a very _small_ rug to serve so large a ring, but he smoothed and patted it proudly, this way and that until he was satisfied. Baggy-trousers had paused his work, leaning comfortably upon his broom to watch. When his friend was done, he pointed out that it was not quite in the middle and gave a quick pull; the other disagreed and tugged it back again. They argued it back and forth until the rug’s owner gave it one last pull and stood defiantly upon it, arms folded. 

With a shrug, Baggy-trousers went on sweeping until he was behind his friend. He gathered his imaginary dust into a careful heap and raised a corner of the rug. Then he looked around the audience and waggled huge white eyebrows questioningly. But when they shouted, ‘Yes!’ Rug-hobbit turned around at once to see what was going on behind his back. Instantly, Baggy-trousers leaned innocently on his broom again and yawned. Then he winked ostentatiously to the crowd and pointed up into the roof, weaving his head as though he saw something flitting from side to side there. As soon as Rug-hobbit copied him, staring intently upward, he lifted the corner again and swept his imaginary pile of dust under it. He had been seen, though, and received a telling off, with much finger-wagging and head-shaking. He fell to his knees as though much chastened, and when Rug-hobbit bent to pat his shoulder forgivingly, he whipped the rug from under his feet and ran away with it. Huge feet waved in the air for a moment or two, then the fallen hero used the broom to help him to his feet and chased Baggy-trousers with it, around the ring and out. 

With never a pause between, a group of brightly clad hobbits bounded in, on a startlingly acrobatic display. Only the lithe and limber teens or younger tweens could ever do such as this, of course – all the leaps and tumbles and clever balancing, to say nothing of the building of shapes and towers of hobbit bodies. Traveller or not, the closer the magic age of three and thirty, the more agility lost out to the pleasures of the table and a comfortably increasing waistline.

Industrious fingers had sewn matching costumes for these four lads and one lass - all members of one extended family, Sam had heard. The lass was both dainty and pretty - her skills being all the more volubly appreciated by the younger and male portion of the audience, of course. That brilliant blue might be cheap stuff and gaudy but here, with reflection winking from many a thousand hand-sewn sequins, the five glittered exotic and memorable in snug little waistcoats (and one snug bodice) over matching trousers that draped loose then gathered close at the ankle. The tremble of sequins caught every scrap of light to toss it hither and yon as the hobbits beneath them whirled and spun, leapt and tumbled, a coloured coruscation all a-shimmer in their wake.

From a contraption like the seesaw on nearly every village green throughout the Shire, the lass and the lighter-built lads shot high into the air to land square on sturdy shoulders. Once aloft, there were one handed balances and even flips from one brother to the next. Sam was more than half sure the odd stagger or wavering step were put in a’purpose to keep the crowd on edge against a failure as never quite came. But he’d dread to think of the weight the bottommost hobbit carried when they formed the various shapes that inevitably ended with every one of the others perched somewhere upon his person. 

His opinion of the whole thing veered from admiration for the agility these young Travellers possessed, to a mild consternation. He winced now and again in sympathy, for it couldn’t be good for any hobbit to spread his legs so wide he looked like a letter T, could it? Not even if he _were_ standing on his head at the time. Small wonder they wore them loose trousers, for any sort of binding whilst you were up to summat like that’d probably bring you back to earth – yes indeed! – with a nasty and possibly permanent shock. And if that young lass fell off backwards from the top of yon mighty hobbit tower, she’d not be laughing for a week or three, choose how.

As their act came toward its end, the five began to throw and catch so fast, Sam found it difficult to rightly follow who went where. They criss-crossed the ring again and again – running, flip-flapping, twisting, wheeling and tumbling at such a speed, it were an every minute wonder they didn’t collide, setting aside any mischief they might well do themselves apiece. He suspected he weren’t the only hobbit to be more than a bit dizzy by the time the five took a panting bow, to well-earned cheers and generous applause.

Sam couldn't help noticing that, while the young (and the not-so-young) female members of the audience may clap rather sparingly at the antics of Traveller lasses, their appreciation of the dark and handsome lads was unstinting. They were especially impressed by the one who had an uncanny way with rope – Hal had mentioned him once in passing, for the varying twists that came from Uncle Andy’s walk were apparently the best in the Shire for this need. With a looped rope, he spun circles in the air all around him, leaping in and out of their compass, faster and faster til he looked to be fair hemmed in by a lithe and living web of threads. This hobbit could also crack a whip in many an inventive way; finely enough, too, to slice strips from a held-up sheet of the _Hobbiton Advertiser and Bywater Times_ , and to slice those strips to shreds in the wide-stretched hands of his young and attractive assistant - even to seize a pipe from her mouth, which, of course, was of more than passing interest to the lads watching so intently.

A great favourite with the youngsters was the clever little dog that could walk on hind or forelegs alone. They _ooh_ ’d and _aah_ ’d and wildly clapped as it bounded through and in and out of brightly coloured hoops, and took flying leaps over the backs of two lucky little hobbitlads and one small lass chosen at random from the audience by the pretty lass whose act this was. Sam could foresee more than a few disgruntled family pets in the days to come.

He did his best to miss as much of the fire-eater’s act as he could. He’d a more than healthy respect for fire, after a bit of silly play between his brothers that had got out hand when Sam weren’t yet a teen. Not long after a Show it’d been, with just such a display of tamed fire - maybe by this selfsame hobbit. But it weren’t summat you really wanted to watch when you’d seen the scarring your eldest brother would carry till the day he died. You couldn’t help worrying that one of these tween lads, all wide-eyed with excitement, might be just as taken as Ham and Hal with the idea that some of the tricks looked simple enough to copy. There’d have been this same solemn warning for them too, of the danger fire could become once freed from hearth or stove. When a lad truly wanted to impress the lass he’d set his eye on, however, distant warnings meant little. It weren’t the Traveller’s fault really – but Sam still preferred not to watch.

Instead, he looked around the audience. Grown hobbits seemed appalled and impressed at once – with a worry similar to his own on the face of many a goodwife, lest any of her brood should try this for themselves. Sam knew most lads to have more sense in the end, and the lasses would only peer through their fingers - little to no chance any of _them_ would try it. 

And, of course, he turned to watch Frodo beside him, recognising the cleft in his forehead - the small frown that told he were trying to work out just _how_ this Traveller could stroke fire over bare skin and not be burned; how he could toss the fiery clubs about with no hesitation and no sign of pain as the heat passed so close and so often; and how his mouth could possibly not blister when he used it to douse live flame. When the Traveller bowed at last to awed applause, Frodo turned too, shaking his head doubtfully. 

‘I’d suspect a sort of fireproof lotion, or something of the kind, Sam,’ he said, ‘but in his mouth the saliva would surely wash it away. He’s a very brave hobbit, however it’s done!’ His eye was caught then by the flash of scarlet as another hobbit came forward, and he nudged at Sam, whose own eyes were somewhat loath to make the change until Frodo said ‘It’s Rafe!’

And so it was - Til’s Rafe, clad as brilliantly as the tumblers, only in red to their blue. He came boldly to the centre of the ring and bowed. 

This was Sam’s first real look at him, outside of firelight and shadow. He was as darkly exotic as most Travellers, and the colour he wore gave a warm cast to his skin - but Sam doubted looks were what had drawn Til to him in the first place. His wonderful smile spoke of a fine sense of the humour in things, and intelligence shone clear in the darkness of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was pleasantly deep and soon showed Rafe to have a slow and gentle way, both with children and with animals – with one, at least – that must have answered to the same in Til. 

‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, though his attention seemed to be elsewhere, for he was looking behind him and shading his eyes against the lights to peer all around. Some of his audience began to look round too – and not only the cross-legged youngsters who lined the outside of the ring. ‘I beg your pardon,’ Rafe said then, ‘I don’t mean to be rude – but I should not be alone out here. I wonder - have any of you seen my pony, a grey pony? No-one? Well now, that’s strange. I wonder where she can be?’ He gave another exaggerated look all around, copied by more than a few grown hobbits too, this time. ‘Storm!’ he called. ‘Storm?’

He apologised into the empty pause, and called again. Still there was nothing. ‘Would you help me, please?’ he asked. ‘She might come if we _all_ called her. Her name is Storm.’ There was a ragged stutter of childish voices, and Rafe turned an ostentatious circle.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, she didn’t hear you. Could you try a little louder, please?’ The voices yelled with a will this time, but the call was still confused.

‘One more time,’ said Rafe, ‘but I think perhaps we should call her together, yes? After three. One!’ He beat the time with his hand in the air. ‘Two! Three - Storm!’

There was indeed a storm of voices, calling the name almost as one, and in through the doorway of the tent trotted a beautiful filly – her build far finer than the everyday beasts most hobbits were used to. Mr Roderic Underwood - noted connoisseur of ponies – was sitting five rows forward, but still Sam heard his sharp exclamation, over the cheers and cries of admiration as Storm approached her master. 

Her coat shone silken, dappled through with black, her mane and tail rippling waterfalls of silver. Caparisoned all in the scarlet of Rafe’s costume, her halter of woven cords bore a single plume to the brow band, and the band across her breast dripped with swaying tassels. Her face was deeply dished, her eyes intelligent and wide, and she bore herself with a pride that was fully deserved; Rafe’s pony was magnificent.

‘Good afternoon, Storm,’ he said.

Storm whickered at him, and lowered her head for a moment.

He indicated the circles of seated youngsters with a wave of his hand. ‘Would you say hello to all these fine young folk, please?’

With a loud neigh, Storm extended one foreleg and dipped into a bow. Rafe waved again, and she turned to bow to those behind them on the other side of the circle. The youngsters were impressed by her good manners, and the chorus of polite ‘Good afternoons’ and ‘Hellos’ must have done their mothers’ hearts good to hear.

‘Storm is a very clever pony, you know,’ Rafe said, almost confidentially. ‘I wonder how many lads and lasses here are good at counting?’ Sam saw many a small head nodding vigorously. ‘Yes? Well, Storm is, too. She always knows the answers. You don’t think so? Then watch! Storm?’

The audience was quiet as the pony approached her master and cocked her head to one side.

‘Tell me, Storm. If you eat three carrots and I give you another three, how many is that?’ Storm flicked her ears and lifted a careful hoof to scrape the ground slowly: once, twice, three times… and when she reached six, she stopped.

The audience clapped wildly, and Storm nodded her head vigorously, which caused a great laugh.

‘How many carrots do you think Storm should have?’ Rafe asked an enthralled lad in the front row who called ‘Five!’ to the pony. ‘And you, my dear?’ This to a shy moppet seated on her daddy’s knee at the end of a row. Rafe cupped a hand to his ear and then relayed her whispered, ‘Four!’ 

Rafe called out the numbers to her, and this time Storm’s count came to its halt at nine. More and more numbers were offered and added together, and always her answer was correct. 

‘You’re telling it the answers!’ cried a voice from the crowd, then. Sam didn’t need to look to know it were Ted Sandyman. 

‘You think so?’ Rafe said. ‘How then if I do this?’ He turned his back upon the pony, folding his arms so than none could say he used any kind of sign before calling out more numbers. Storm’s hoof beat out the answers just as steadily as before.

‘He can’t be giving her signals now,’ Sam said in a low voice. ‘How’s he doing it, d’you think?’

‘Watch the audience, Sam. They’re the ones who are ‘doing’ it!’ Frodo breathed his answer into Sam’s right ear, and only a real interest in the conundrum enabled Sam to follow his suggestion.

Whilst Storm tapped out the answer to seven and six more - apples this time - Sam looked aside to the hobbits around him. Seeming not to know it at all, almost every one of them was nodding his or her head, oh so very slightly, encouraging the pony as she beat out the number. And when the audience stopped moving, her hoof ceased to tap. Sam shook his head in wonder – and it weren’t only the _pony’s_ intelligence as so impressed him; trust his Frodo to make a connection like that.

‘As Til said – it’s _very_ clever, and must have taken _hours_ of training!’ Frodo said.

‘She looks to enjoy it, though,’ Sam said, ‘and you can tell she likes the applause!’ It was true Storm arched her neck and seemed almost to preen every time her trick brought more clapping.

At last Rafe produced a small flute, and a drum began to beat, a soft and rhythmic cadence from beyond the circle of light. ‘Why don’t you show everyone how beautifully you can dance?’ 

Storm nodded her head vigorously, snorting and blowing her agreement to a scatter of appreciative giggles. Rafe began to play a stately tune and his pony circled him at an impossibly slow trot, each hoof landing in time to the note of pipe and drum; when Rafe waved to her and turned right around, then so did Storm. The music quickened and with front legs crossing delicately, rear ones leaping after, she came sideways to Rafe in the centre of the ring. She swayed to and fro there, dancing and turning, her hooves moving always to the rhythm of pipe and drum. Then the tune pitched higher and Storm rose onto her hind legs and pirouetted on the spot.

The audience clapped and cheered as Rafe leapt lightly to Storm’s back and she rose into a series of pirouettes as Rafe waved to the crowd, dipping his head in thanks. They cantered once around the ring to louder applause and disappeared through the curtain.

After Storm’s impressive showing, the clowns appeared once more, in helpful mode this time. With much huffing and blowing, they dragged in a cart which bore a selection of the heavy weights used to measure sacks of corn, potatoes and the like. Between them they struggled – with the kind of backwards falling that most delighted their audience – to place these weights on the ground. Then one of them whistled toward the entrance, the drum rolled and a trumpet sounded impressively, and in came the weightlifter, daringly attired in not much more than the spotted pelt of some exotic animal from a place that must be very far from the Shire. 

With much posturing and an extensive display of oiled muscle, he proceeded to lift ever heavier weights – singly or in pairs, the sweat gleaming upon his skin as he heaved and strained to raise the heaviest above his head at last. He departed to loud applause (most noticeably appreciative from the female portion of the audience), leaving his helpers to reload the cart with mimed complaint and much groaning. At length they dragged it off - forgetting, it seemed, the largest weight of all, in the centre of the ring. For a moment there was a silence, then Baggy-trousers dashed in, looked furtively around him, picked up the weight with one hand and rushed out again. For no reason he could fathom, it really tickled Sam and he laughed until tears escaped him. Frodo turned to him with a puzzled expression and somehow that just made it all the funnier.

He was still chortling quietly to himself when the juggler began his act, throwing only three balls from hand to hand at first. Sam remembered his younger self managing it for all of half a dozen throws afore fumbling them, and reckoning himself a juggler too (making himself right unpopular with their lasses, o’course, to whom the three had belonged). His fingers started to itch with wanting to have another go, sure he’d be better at it now than then. And, although he knew quite well the items had really to be all the same size and weight, he had a sudden irresistible vision of himself keeping his trowel and dibber, the skein of garden twine and maybe a small handfork spinning aloft - being able simultaneously to smile modestly at Frodo and not drop a single thing. 

Almost as if he’d read Sam’s thought, Frodo turned to him. ‘I keep imagining myself trying it with a couple of sticks of sealing wax, a volume or two of poetry and the odd ball of string!’ 

‘Aye, sir – the only trouble being all the picking up to do, after!’ 

‘And maybe a black eye - or even two - when everything lands amiss!’

But Sam’s mouth dropped open when the juggler began to whirl as he juggled, lifting his legs to throw the balls every which way through and back, yet never fumbling a single catch. And when the count of what he threw increased to five, then seven and at the last to nine, Sam’s imagination admitted defeat. He could barely tell which hand were where, let alone how such a feat might be achieved.

When it came to the plate all a-spin on the top of a long stick, and that stick balanced on the juggler’s chin - with a couple of red and white clubs rotating almost casually in each hand - the look Sam exchanged with Frodo was both impressed and full of amusement. Variations upon ‘We’ll have not a single plate left whole!’ came whispered from the goodwives on every row of the audience.

Once the juggler and his pretty helper spirited away the many items they had used, into the ring trotted a pair of ponies. They were followed by a quite soberly dressed hobbit with an enormously long whip he used to guide their movements - slowing or quickening their pace, causing them change direction when that was needed.

The two were mismatched so far as colour went – one as pied and patched as if a Basrigger had been at work on him - _after_ lunch; the other a chestnut with flaxen mane and tail. In height and gait though, they were ideally suited. Their part was to canter steadily around the ring as yet another lass came forward to display her skills on one or other of their backs. They circled in opposite directions, one inside the other’s path, and each time they crossed there was a flash of sequin-glittered yellow as she leapt the gap between. Prettily balanced poses alternated with acrobatic feats that included twisting tumbles from one pony, down to the ground, and a vaulting leap onto the other, despite all speed. When she took a dangerous slither from the patchwork back, beneath the creamy belly and up the other side, the audience gasped and clapped as one - the cheers being especially generous from the knots of admiring lads. For her final trick, the ponies circled side by side – walking at first, then trotting, then gathering speed into a fast-paced canter. And the Traveller lass rode them standing, a foot upon each, still waving and bowing as they took her from the ring. 

‘That last trick is called Ro’an riding, so Bilbo told me,’ Frodo said. ‘Long ago Travellers ventured far into the south, and found a race of Men there that had a wonderful way with horses. It was they who first conceived of skills like these - for use in their wars, it seems.’

There was a brief silence now, and the usual clowning interval never happened. A louder roll of drums burst forth, ominous and almost harsh, and a narrow circle of light shone down – Sam glanced quickly upward and realised it was done with lanterns and mirrors - casting the rest of the tent all into shadow. The drumbeats settled to a low, continuous mutter and into that bright beam strode a broad and swarthy Traveller. This hobbit’s costume was black, his spangles restrained; for contrast he needed no more than the main tool of his act girded about his body. Light glinted, cold and wicked, from the blades he carried there, for he was a thrower of knives.

There were disquieted murmurings from the crowd. The acts they’d seen already began to seem over-cheerful, almost frivolous. This hobbit struck a different note that verged upon the sinister, and the shiver of anticipation passed amongst them as he bowed briefly and began to speak. 

In words as sharply pointed as the weapons he wore, he informed them that his usual partner for the act was today unfortunately indisposed. An audible groan rose from the clusters of lads for whom the person of the decorative lass was at least as fascinating as the danger in which she stood. The knife thrower raised his voice above their disappointment and pointed out that with the change of target his act would prove more dangerous than ever. Solemnly he asked them to remain both silent and still, for he would need all of his concentration - his mark today being both taller and broader than he was used to. Then he asked them to show their appreciation for the bravery of this temporary assistant, with a great flourish of his hand toward the entrance.

And into the ring stepped Rafe Boswell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had already written Storm long before I found this picture on the net, but it’s uncannily like my mental vision of her (I just added the plume)!
> 
> [ ](http://photobucket.com)


	23. Show Day the Third – Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which danger is bravely borne, a scolding is administered, a name is bestowed, and Bilbo is at his most organising
> 
> Rating: A (for Anticipatory)

Over the low, continuous growl of drums, Sam glanced quickly toward the entrance of the tent, his attention caught by the sharp lift and drop of a hand. It was Til’s hand - and from the expression on his face he had not known, could never have thought Rafe would put himself into such danger. Wouldn’t Rafe have reassured him it was s—? Well, no, not _safe_. Sam doubted _any_ thing involved with knives was wholly safe - barring mealtimes and a spot of carving, o’course. 

But the thrower would never have ventured this if he’d not confidence enough in his skill for the difference in assistant to be no difference at all - would he? And Rafe must have that confidence too, or he’d not be risking his life here - surely he’d’ve explained that to Til? But perhaps there’d not been time - Sam remembered how Rafe had arrived only at the very last minute to watch the Sheepdog Championship - and maybe _this_ was why. There’d definitely not been time afterward for more than a very swift hug, for Rafe had rushed off again afore Til could be claimed by his family’s congratulations.

Well, whichever way it’d been, these next minutes were set to be some of the longest Til would ever face, that were for sure. It’d be much harder, Sam reckoned, to stand by and watch the one you loved put himself in danger than to suffer it yourself. 

When Sam looked back to the ring, Rafe was moving to take his place, sideways on to a large board, painted all in white save for the profile, stark black upon it, of the hobbitlass who _should_ be standing there. It brought to mind Sam’s own profile that Frodo had fashioned from his shadow, winning for its maker a coveted red rosette. 

It was during a long and sleety-wet spell during early Rethe - not much a body could do outside and not much left indoors as _needed_ doing - that Frodo asked for his help. He’d wanted to have a try at something he’d seen on his recent visit to the Great Smials. Anyone there who wasn’t tracing profiles, he said, was either having theirs traced, or blacking and finishing the one they’d just finished tracing; and the Smials probably now had the cleanest chimneys to their lamps of any place in Middle-earth. For Sam, his voice became an ongoing background murmur – something about the lengths to which really keen Tooks were going in order to obtain the pigment they needed when it ran short, and visits made ever further afield; about Pippin, too, and how, while the novelty was at its height, he’d never been a proper hobbit colour for more than a few minutes of any given day - and probably many another interesting fact besides. But through all that time, Frodo’s hands had been upon Sam - arranging the priceless lace at his throat and drawing his hair up into the most fashionable style; taking his shoulders to gently turn him this way and that until his shape should show to best advantage, it seemed – and Sam never would remember more than the highlights of what he’d said.

If Mr Bilbo hadn’t wandered into the parlour to observe proceedings, Sam might well have given himself away right then and there. But with his uncle’s appearance, Frodo decided his model was ready at last and quickly got down to the business of limning around Sam’s shadow onto the sheet of paper affixed to the wall. As soon as it were done, Sam’d been away, fast as he could go without his need for escape being obvious, he hoped. He’d given silent thanks yet again for the good thing it was, that being a gardener positively demanded trousers loose enough, not only to bend to the weeding, but to conceal other things besides.

The rolling drums cut across his memory, climbing fiercely in an ominous crescendo, then falling again to a mutter Sam felt more than he heard. The Traveller readied his first knife, weighing it deliberately in his hand, raising it slowly; he chose his position with care - taking exactly the time he needed to sight his target aright. All was done at such a solemn pace, Sam was actually surprised by a fast flick of wrist - the sudden forward glitter of steel - as the knife flew out at last. He’d definitely have sworn to every single hobbit in the tent sucking in a breath in that same minute – just as he’d swear to hearing every one released at once as the knife thudded, hard and true into the board, and barely an inch above the crown of Rafe’s head. The drums celebrated with a noisy roll of triumph and a dramatic crash of cymbal, subsiding again to their baleful, nigh-on silent grumble as the knife-thrower took up his place once more.

Sam hadn’t thought it possible for Til’s face to get any paler, but seemingly it was. He really wished he could go to Til’s side, quietly and without drawing attention to either of them, just to lay a reassuring hand upon his arm.

As it was, his fingers had curled themselves very tightly over the edge of the bench on which they sat – and he realised his right hand had come to rest snug against Frodo’s left. He too was clutching at the wooden slats - tight enough, when Sam glanced down, for his knucklebones to push stark and white beneath his skin. His bottom lip was bitten into whiteness, too, his face twisted to mirror the same anguish Sam could see on Til’s. Sam’s only thought was that he _could_ be there for Frodo - and very gently he nudged their two hands together. Immediately Frodo’s pushed into his own, and Sam clasped it reassuringly, threading their fingers to answer the almost painful press of Frodo’s.

The unseen drums rolled on, thrumming low or briefly blaring a staccato counterpoint to the whizz and clunk of every knife that drove inexorably into the board against which Rafe stood. One by one they landed in pattern: behind his neck, before his nose, under his chin, above his breast, and almost snug within the curve of his back - tracing his shape as surely as Frodo's charcoaled stick, but with genuine peril here. And all the while Sam’s eyes flicked to and fro from Rafe to Til - to the pain so naked in his face. 

To loud, relieved acclaim from every hobbit in the tent Rafe stepped from the board to take his bow, leaving an outline to shine still in steel. But just as Sam were thinking the ordeal – Til’s ordeal as much as Rafe’s – completely done with, there proved to be another part – and worse.

Rafe put his back against a second board, setting his feet on small ledges to raise him to its centre, for this was a wide circle of white. He was buckled securely into place at waist and wrist and ankle by a spangly-dressed lass who seemed torn between trepidation and hidden half-smiles for the appreciation her small part gained for her. But her charms could not long divert attention from the sense of doom gathering among the hobbits who watched and waited in their seats. 

She signalled all was ready, and the board began to revolve - slowly at first, then faster and faster until the handsome red-clad figure became little more than a splash of bright scarlet bordered in white. The growl of drums echoed the rising speed - then ceased abruptly as the thrower took up his knives once more. Only six this time, seemingly, but it’d take nobbut a single—Sam stopped the thought abruptly and watched the first knife brandished in the air, catching all the light, it seemed, to one harsh glitter.

A quick whisper of movement rippled through the tent as hobbits shifted closer to each other, and hands reached out for comfort. The very young turned to hide their faces against a parent’s skirt or knee, though they made never another sound. Sam’s eyes were only for Til’s anguish but his hand was clutched within Frodo’s, their fingers lacing ever tighter in support, for Sam as much as Frodo needed that reassurance – as much as any hobbit here to see another in such peril. 

The silence was complete now, as the Traveller stood, poised and waiting, before the spinning blur that held Rafe Boswell. When at last it was thrown, his knife surely sliced the air so much more slowly than before? But the long and whistling rip of sound ended only in a reassuring _Thunk!_ as the vicious point bit deep into the wood - with an echo of many heartfelt sighs to mark its landing before the nervous, brief applause, an echo of many heartfelt sighs flying in its wake before the nervous, brief applause.

Still the same tight disc of scarlet spun within its white surround. Again and again the swift-slow flight and landing; again and again the loud intake and release of breath that attended every throw and thud; again and again, Til’s face screwed ever tighter in dread - until at last there came the very last of each. 

The knife-thrower raised his arms then, and swept a bow before he moved to halt the slowing circle with its new and brightly glittering border. He released his target - safe and whole still, if a trifle dizzy - and the little band struck up a jolly and triumphant tune together. It was almost drowned by the applause that burst forth, roaring around the huge tent with cheers and whistles – so much the louder for the audience’s real relief.

The two took bow after bow, but Sam looked quickly to the board. There _could_ be no red still splashed across the white, but he was far from the only hobbit who needed that same reassurance. The place where Til had stood was empty now - he was gone already, and the ring began to fill with performers come to take their own final bows. One last burst of capering from the clowns raised laughs even easier now the danger was truly past. But their suddenly improved aim in the matter of custard pies was irrelevant when Til was outside somewhere, probably in shock and definitely the better for a friendly word if naught else. Sam looked at Frodo, who nodded and squeezed his fingers before gently freeing them. ‘Come on,’ he said.

To leave by the aisle steps would draw attention to themselves, but being on the topmost tier meant they’d another, if less convenient, way down. Sam’s mislike of heights must be set aside in face of Til’s need - and, really, the generous struts gave hold aplenty to hand and foot, with Frodo’s understanding smile encouragement enough. Tiers of seats and hobbit bodies dulled the sounds of cheering, applause and music alike, as they began to thread a careful way between the curving tent wall and the cat’s cradle of supports. And then, quite clearly, just beyond the canvas, they heard voices. It seemed Rafe had beaten them to Til’s side.

‘—I can’t give it up, Til – I _can’t_. I don’t mean such as helping out here - I had to do that. We practised, and I knew I should be safe. But the travelling - I can’t stop in one place, not even with you. I’ve tried, you know I have. I’ve tried it and I can’t do it. Come with me, please? It’s a good life, really it is. We work the farms wherever we go, we earn an honest living, whatever some folk say of us. We’d have our own van and be together—’ There was the sound of movement, as though he pulled Til close. ‘Think about it, love – _please_?’

‘I can’t,’ Til said quietly. ‘I’ll hurt my ma and pa more’n enough as it is, ’cause I ain’t never going to marry and have no family to carry on the farm like I should. I can’t - I’d be betraying you, and me, and her an’ all, and I won’t do it. But I can’t come with you, Rafe. It’s my _land_.’ 

There was such sadness to the words, Sam felt tears start in his own eyes. 

‘It’s where I was born, it’s where my roots are! Can you not see it? ’ Til sighed aloud. ‘No, I know you can’t.’

A deep breath and his voice changed, straining to sound warm and hopeful instead, now. 

‘You’ll be back again almost afore we know it, love, and—and maybe I could write—’ He stopped, and Sam realised that shortcomings in the Quick Post service were the least of their troubles in this. Few Travellers ever learned to read or write; indeed, there were many settled hobbits without such skills, and Sam knew himself to be lucky in so very many ways. Messages might indeed be passed between the pair, told for them by other travelling folk; but you couldn’t put your longing into another hobbit’s voice; you couldn’t tell them all the things you needed to say. And even _I love you_ must be a cold and distant memory on someone else’s lips. 

Such parting would be hard enough if you _could_ write your longing to each other, Sam thought; a year of knowing only that your love was well enough to send a very occasional message saying so, might feel like sixty. There had to be doubts and jealousies too, no matter that they swore faith to each other, and no amount of writing, let alone short and garbled tidings, could solve what needed skin on skin to prove the surety, of promises fulfilled and then renewed.

And though the dangers of travel were many - even well within the Shire, let alone through strange, outlying parts - a farm could be as perilous a workplace as any, and accidents not far to seek. Sam could almost feel the uncertainty they must live with, every day, and his own heart hurt for theirs. The only thing they had to hold to was this fervent annual loving - and then the anguished parting.

‘I do love you, Til, really I do. But I’d be miserable, stopping in one place forever – just like you would if you travelled with me. I wouldn’t be able to pretend I wasn’t, and you’d not be able to hide how you needed to go home. So I reckon we should make the most of the time we have - not waste it at odds over what can't be changed.’

There was a silence then, and Frodo raised his eyes to Sam's, both faces flushing in the embarrassment of having listened when they should not; and maybe with the knowledge that the other two were hugging if not kissing now. Before either of them could speak, though, Frodo’s gaze slipped sideways and he grinned suddenly. Sam turned to see half a dozen more pairs of eyes watching them – at eye level, too - staring through the gaps between each tier of seating; at least one pair had its accompanying nose above instead of below. Seats up there might be emptying fast now, but it seemed there were still _some_ patrons who took an interest in their surroundings. 

‘ _You_ shouldn’t _be_ there,’ a small voice said accusingly. ‘Our da says as you’re not _allowed_ to play at the back like that.’ The eyes all moved, one way or another, heads obviously nodding in agreement.

‘Quite right too,’ Frodo said. ‘We—we—’ he floundered for a moment and Sam improvised into the pause.

‘We were just looking for summat as Mr Frodo dropped,’ he said, holding up a finger and thumb as though holding something small and precious between them.

‘Best be out of there now, then.’ Their accuser’s tone was meaningful, his stare unwavering.

‘Yes, well,’ Frodo said, the tremor in his voice just about under control, ‘we’ll be off, then. Come along, Sam!’ His shoulders heaved with silent laughter as he led the way through the tangle of supports to an exit. Sam managed to keep his chortle to himself till they were outside. But once there, and despite the enquiring gaze of the hobbits spilling out all around them, _nothing_ could have kept either of them from laughing until he doubled over. Sam wiped his eyes at last, pretty sure it’d not have been as funny if not for following so fast on their worry over Rafe, and Til— 

‘Afternoon, Mr Frodo, Sam. What in the Shire’s made you laugh like that?’

He looked a sight better’n the last time Sam saw him, though still not quite his usual self. The answer to his question might prove a little tricky, too… 

But Frodo told truth, if incomplete - which was more than Sam’s hasty excuse had been. ‘A thorough telling off – for being where we shouldn’t - from a little lad who has his venerable gammer's most reproving tone off to a nicety!’ 

Til clearly had nephews and nieces enough - and a gammer of his own, still - to know exactly what he meant, for he smiled in sympathy.

‘I’d really like for you to meet Rafe, sir - if you can hold on a minute or two, he’ll be right back. He’s gone to change back to proper clothes again.’ 

Sam could quite see the point of the change, but he understood the note in Til’s voice that said he thought it rather a shame to lose the spangled scarlet that showed off Rafe’s dark good looks so well. Somewhat like his own preference for Frodo in blue, he suspected – though Til’d undoubtedly be able to show his appreciation more comprehensively.

‘Of course,’ Frodo said. ‘We’d like to, very much.’ He lowered his voice then, drawing Til aside just a little from the main flow of hobbits still leaving the huge tent. Sam knew he’d find a tactful way to give Til chance to speak about the ordeal, should he need it, and reckoned two’d be better for that than three.

He stayed where he was, looking around to see if he could spot Rafe returning – and met instead a gaze he knew already. It was more speculative - with just a hint of guilt - than accusing now, and came from a level slightly higher than his own, for the lad was perched on the stout shoulders of Jess the goat-keeper.

‘How do, Sam! How’s life treating you, then?’ They shook hands warmly, though their exchange of news was necessarily quite quick. Sam had not that much to tell – what with the memory of Frodo's mistaken belief in this friendship quite fresh in his mind, and all; and a mixed group of hobbits already out on the aisle - Annie (or Nancy) Crabtree amongst them - calling and waving to Jess to get a move on. ‘And this is our Tolly’s oldest, Berrol,’ Jess said at last, grasping the lad’s dusty little feet to his chest.

‘Oh, aye?’ Sam said. ‘We _have_ met, briefly!’ 

The little eyes grew wide with alarm until Sam gave a wink, and then, alarm forgotten, tried their very best to return it. Berrol screwed up his face, blinking and squinting, all through Sam’s farewells, their previous meeting irrelevant with this new skill to perfect.

They’d no sooner gone than Rafe appeared, neatly but far more soberly clad now, and he knew Sam at once.

‘Sam Gamgee, right? Rafe Boswell.’ He thrust out his hand and shook Sam’s, warmly. ‘You’re the gardener, aren’t you?’

‘That’s me,’ said Sam.

‘And talented too, by what I hear! Til made very sure to take and show me that new rose as caused all the kerfuffle. I ain’t never seen - nor smelled! - a flower quite so beautiful, and that’s a fact. What’ve you called it? Sam’s Rose?’

‘Oh, no!’ Sam said quickly. _‘Frodo’s_ Rose!’ He could say, it right out like that, because he knew Rafe, though almost a stranger, must know of his love for Frodo, from Til if not from his Gran. 

‘Lucky hobbit, sir, to have a flower as wondrous as that called after you!’ Rafe said easily, for Frodo and Til had joined them now. 

‘Sam?’ Frodo’s head cocked to one side enquiringly. 

Sam was flustered by the gently searching question. However else he had imagined this happening, it had never been quite _this_ way. 

‘S—see, sir,’ he stuttered, ‘I—fact is, I always thought of it as yours, Mr Frodo, bein’ from Ba—’ He stopped, for that would have been untrue. Bag End had nothing to do with it at all, and he would not lie to Frodo. ‘Bein’ as it’s strong and dark and velvet-soft - and—and beautiful with pure gold hidden at the heart!’ It all came out in one big rush afore he could think what he were saying at all. He swallowed then, blushing, and ploughed on. ‘S—so w—would you mind, sir, if I called it after you? If I called it _Frodo’s Rose_?’

‘ _Mind_? Sam, I would be completely honoured! But are you _sure_?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m more than sure. Sir,’ he added, belatedly, having almost forgotten how to cope with things like correct forms of address. In fact, all else were in a fair way to shutting down altogether, what with the way Frodo were looking at him. No doubt about it, now. That—well, that were _exactly_ the way Til looked at—

‘Rafe Boswell! The very hobbit I need – or rather, Bill Swire needs!’ 

None of them had seen or heard Bilbo’s approach, and Sam had to blink several times before he remembered to greet him – and not alone, for Frodo was equally tardy. It was fortunate indeed that Rafe was not similarly afflicted.

‘Me, Mr Baggins, sir?’

‘Yes, indeed, Rafe. Bill has got himself into quite a pother, what with a rush of customers on the one hand - all wanting to make last minute purchases - and on the other needing to get the stall closed up for a while so he can watch the Grand Parade. He really could use a stout pair of hands. I happened to be there, and we were both agreed Rafe Boswell would be the very hobbit for the job. I said I’d hurry on over and see if the Little Show could spare you.’

 _Another of Mr Bilbo’s unlikely happenstances_ , Sam thought, _and if he’s just hurried_ any _where - well, I wish_ I _may look so sprightly, rushing about, when I’m_ half _his age!_

Til’s face registered sudden shock. ‘The Grand Parade!’ he said. ‘And me not there to help get the stock ready, neither! Excuse me, Mr Bilbo, if you please. Mr Frodo, Sam. Rafe…’ A polite nod all around, a slightly longer look for Rafe (which Sam could see were a promise even if Mr Bilbo missed it – and that weren’t likely) and Til was gone.

‘Yes, of course,’ Bilbo said to his retreating back. He turned. ‘And if you wouldn’t mind lending an old hobbit a hand, Rafe, Bill will be more than grateful.’

‘’Course, sir. I’ll be on my way then. Nice to meet you, Mr Frodo, Sam.’

There was barely time to return Rafe's farewell before Mr Bilbo had yet more instructions to give.

‘I shall need you, Frodo, in the ring with me to present the goat section prizes.’

‘Must I, Bilbo? I was just—I need to—’

‘Yes, indeed. You never know when you may be called upon to—that is to say, one of these days—well, the experience will stand you in good stead, I’m sure. You might even want to stand for mayor, in the fullness of time!’

Frodo laughed at the thought. ‘Not likely!’ he said. 

‘You never know what may happen in the future,’ Bilbo said, sententiously enough but with a twinkle for his nephew. ‘Be that as it may, I should like your company just as soon as the goats reach the trophy table, if not before. And you’ll need your coat – shirtsleeves may be all very well for jauntering about the Show, but we shall have a little decorum for the presentation, if you please!’

Sam had already noticed that Mr Bilbo – perfectly presentable all day –now appeared positively immaculate in his second-best coat, the waistcoat of figured brocade and a fresh cravat.

‘You’ll find it in the judges’ tent – and get those hands washed while you’re at it, Frodo! Off you go, lad, off you go!’

‘Will you find us somewhere to sit, Sam?’ asked Frodo, lingering despite his uncle’s haste. ‘Near the table if you can manage it. I can wait with you just as easily as n—’

‘Yes, yes, of course he will – never saw two hobbits so inseparable in my life!’ Bilbo said, flapping his hands to shoo Frodo on his way. 

Sam waited for Mr Bilbo’s instructions for him – or what more he would have to say about the gardener’s son being _inseparable_ from his heir, but he merely twinkled again.

‘You have your orders, Samwise!’ he said. ‘Off you go, then!’


	24. Show Day the Third – Late Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Show winds toward its inevitable end but Sam's thoughts tend more to a beginning
> 
> Rating: A (for Anticipatory; and Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, in Poultry Showing circles, there really is a class – and therefore the possibility of a trophy – as noted

The Presentation table was laden and waiting already on the far side of the Show-ring – several tables together, in fact, since GAFFS was almost excessively endowed with trophies to bestow upon its most successful competitors. The nearer longside of the ring was well-lined already with hobbits awaiting the spectacle, every seating bale laden to the full. Along the two shorter edges they were rapidly filling, though the trek to reach the far side meant there were plenty of seats for those with the energy to reach them. Sam set off at an amble, purposeful but unhurried, exchanging a word here and there with hobbits he knew that were already seated. By the time he staked a dual claim on a bale right by the tables, the judges had arrived in a group to take the proper seats provided for them - Mr Bilbo with his fellows but Frodo electing, as promised, to sit with Sam. 

The exhibits and their owners had obviously been ready and waiting for some time - a confused mêlée of hobbits and animals, all milling and fidgeting with boredom just beyond the entrance. No sooner were the judges seated, the last word of the Show Secretary’s welcome still echoing in her megaphone, than the first of them spilled forward - only to withdraw again, being temporarily out of their proper order. All controllable livestock was paraded by kind - driven, led or ridden; all sporting their rosettes of red or blue, yellow or green on bridle, harness or whatever vantage point was both convenient and safe; rosettes being often, if mistakenly, believed to be tasty, particularly by the caprine contingent. 

The display was always led by the cattle section; for the most part, the beasts processed majestically, taking little notice of the bustle around them; only the calves seemed to show much interest in the noisy crowd and the unaccustomed smell of animals strange to them. The goats that followed them were often quite skittish on their leads - a few of the kids positively acrobatic. All were pleased to be out of their confining pens and hoping to find more interesting food if possible; however juicy cut grass may be, it lacked the variety of browsing they craved. Small groups of sheep trotted dimly along, held in expert check by self-important dogs whose tongues lolled a laugh at their silly charges. Behind them ponies of all the different Shire types and breeds walked in an elegantly well-schooled manner that proved their training. Many of them made it abundantly clear - in a toss of the head or a swish of tail - that this snail’s pace was beneath their abilities; just give them an open road or a spacious heath, their fidgets seemed to say, and they would be away with the wind. 

It was not thought wise to parade the pigs - pigs having minds of their own and a stubborn porker more than able to out-balk even the most contrary of hobbits. Besides which, piglets were born possessed of scattering abilities that had to be seen to be believed - and preferably _not_ experienced. No-one wanted to get that hot and bothered on this last afternoon, what with the feast and the dancing to come. The pig-herders paraded in a group, however, wearing the appropriate rosettes, for there were still trophies to be received, albeit the true winners remained comfortably ensconced in their beds of deep straw.

Exhibitors and exhibits circled the perimeter of the ring until they came up to the tables, pausing there for the winners to receive from their section judges one - or sometimes more - of the wide and glittering array of GAFFS’ Perpetual Trophies. Beyond the honouring superior examples within each individual breed type, there were many more specific awards for each category, from Best Sow with Litter (thankfully absent from proceedings, as noted), through Most Promising Colt, to Champion Steer; from Goat with the Highest Milk Yield to Plough-Hobbit of the Year, from Most Attractive Tradeshobbit’s Turnout to Best Hard Feather Cock. There were few excellences involving livestock, farming and the land that were not recognised here in tangible - if purely annual - form. 

There were always… incidents, of course - as unlooked for as unplanned, but often adding pleasantly to the spectacle and sometimes enlivening proceedings quite considerably (if perhaps not altogether desirably at times). The innocent provider this year was Norden Haslow, a smallholder who hadn’t but the one cow that he tethered along the lanes and on the local common. She produced milk and butter to spare, to be sold to neighbours and at market, too, alongside the fruits and vegetables Norden grew. Molly’s contribution to the budget of a growing family was inestimable, and she was pampered and cared for as one with them. Unfortunately, _being_ an only cow, she was granted just a single, almost annual, close acquaintance with the male of her species; an appointment that was due very soon, but that she had brought forward, it seemed, under the influence of at least one of the several splendid specimens present today. 

As Norden led her into the ring - a green, fourth prize rosette proudly displayed on her bridle - it was unfortunate also that she came within sight and scent of Humph, the Oldacres’ Darkster bull. He was instantly smitten - _his_ entry into the ring being a good deal faster and considerably less controlled than any. Wil Baffin – spouse to Aster Oldacre-as-was – clung valiantly to the lead clipped onto his nose-ring, but that discomfort seemed completely irrelevant to the normally tractable bull as he advanced upon Molly, his equipment fully in evidence and quite obviously at the ready. She was equally smitten by his charms, and more than receptive to his attentions; matters were swiftly concluded - most satisfactorily, it seemed, upon either part.

Reactions varied amongst the watching crowd. Older hobbits tutted, that the beast should not have been kept under better control, though tween lads merely laughed aloud, cheering on Humph’s efforts. Very young hobbits asked awkward questions of their parents, whilst unmarried lasses blushed becomingly and turned aside from the shocking sight. Several of the less worldly maiden aunts fainted clean away, and had to be revived with smelling salts (or tots of brandy, sent for from the beer tent), according to their constitutions). And Sam’s _face_ weren’t the only place he could feel a spreading warmth neither, though he only cleared his throat and made sure not to look at Frodo, at least until the act was concluded and the participants separated; Humph to resume his proper place in the now somewhat straggled line of cattle, Molly being withdrawn in order to recover from her experience (and also to avoid her attractions inflaming the passions of any other bull in the Parade).

 _Not_ looking at Frodo, though, was even more of a problem than usual just now, even before Humph’s rousing assault upon Molly’s virtue; from the very minute, in fact, that he approached the bale where Sam was saving a space for him. Sam’s breath had caught and his mouth fell open - for Mr Bilbo had brought the blue velvet coat that featured in so many of Sam’s fantasies; that became Frodo like no other. And Frodo had washed more than just his hands while he was away. Tendrils of hair still clung darkly to his face and neck - sleek and wet and black; wisps whose touch Sam had learned already, these past days. A touch that was no touch at all shivered through him then, hope and anticipation in one. 

Since he must wear a jacket, thankfully left unbuttoned, Frodo had abandoned as too warm the waistcoat he’d worn each day – matching Sam in style if Sam could never match him in quality; and he’d put on a clean shirt – one so fine and light it was tinted into warmth by the creamy pale of Frodo’s skin beneath. Sam only came back to the proprieties of time and place when Frodo reached out a finger – gently but discreetly, to say how fast the bales around them were filling with spectators of everything that transpired – pushing up his chin to close his mouth. And he smiled at Sam, almost shyly, as he settled beside him on their bale.

Sam was very aware of Frodo’s warmth at his side, and of the way, whenever his eyes strayed from events within the ring, the light seemed to ripple shadows across the velvet with each slightest move that Frodo made, with every breath he took. But bales were being shared (quite cosily, in places) all around the ring, and other eyes must also stray at times; it really was nobody else’s business what effect sharing this one with Frodo Baggins may have upon Samwise Gamgee, and so Sam fixed his mind with renewed determination upon the passing cavalcade.

He applauded with the crowd as a now positively mellow Humph led the Darkster contingent to the table. If Wil’s clutch upon the lead rope still looked a trifle strained, it was only to be expected; but he was quite able to spare a hand for the trophy that the tweens, at least, seemed to consider - and vociferously - the bull had earned in more ways than one.

By the looks of it, Netherfold Farm was as well represented here as ever, with the Oldacre family stretched to its limits across the Show-ring, their stock having taken rosettes in all of the categories and most of the classes in which they were entered. They’d needed to call upon a number of friends and relatives to help display the evidence of just how successful they had been. A ripple of laughter was passed along the bales at sight of young Eskey Baffin - Wil and Aster’s eldest, though still not yet ten years old. Chest puffed out bravely, he headed the parade of pig-herders, showing off the tricoloured rosette that announced him - or Biddy, at least - to be adjudged Best Darkshire Sow. 

Til was in the ring, of course, but marching far back in line, with Meg amidst the other finalists of the Sheepdog Trials; ready to cheer as loudly as the rest when Shepherd Tidmarsh and Bob stepped up to receive the huge and gleaming Champion’s trophy. He’d had to forego showing off Dol in her third prize rosette; Sam was both surprised and pleased to realise the hobbit to whom the task had fallen was Rafe Boswell; he and old Bill must have made short work of closing up the stall satisfactorily. More composed now, he nudged Frodo in case he should not have noticed; he had, of course, and answered with a nod and a pleased grin.

When the contingent of goatkeepers and their charges approached the tables, Bilbo rose and nodded to Frodo, who turned to Sam with a grimace that was half a smile. It said quite clearly (to Sam, at least) _Duty calls, but I'll be back as soon as ever I can!_ Disposal of the many trophies quickly took up a smoothly efficient rhythm. The secretary employed her megaphone to announce the award and the name of the winner, as she pointed out the correct one to Frodo. He brought it to his uncle’s side just as the ritual handshake began, and Bilbo made the actual presentation to each delighted exhibitor.

One of the very last to be presented was the friendly little golden lass Sam had met and fallen for. Amidst the trophies for Champions of each breed, for milk yields, for the best in each category and in the entire goat show, was one that allowed for a more personal selection. _The Goat the Judge Would Most Like to Take Home_ may not be one of the more prestigious awards in the opinion of the goat-keeping fraternity at large, but to Sam it was the most desirable accolade any goat could win. He wondered if it had been Mr Bilbo’s choice alone, or if Frodo had had a say – and if so, whether his own little conversation with the blonde beauty may have influenced his opinion. It _was_ Frodo who presented the award to her delighted owner, so perhaps it had, and Frodo’s grin - when, task completed, he returned to his seat - simply confirmed Sam’s guess.

Settling back into place once more, Frodo slid his left hand down in the small space between them, as if to curl his fingers over the edge of the bale. Without turning his head, Sam peered sideways at him, only to find Frodo peering back at him - a glance that was just as sidelong but with a wholly different smile now curving discreetly at the corner of his mouth. Sam edged his right hand carefully down to where Frodo’s waited, as much relieved as elated, when it turned upward to meet his, threading their fingers together. Watching was so much more enjoyable this way, with Sam’s thumb gently caressing the back of Frodo’s hand; and, after all, not _every_ hobbit spectator clapped as the parade passed by. 

This was more than the holding of Frodo’s hand in the shadowy reaches of a tent to watch the Little Show, more even than sitting so close by him at the furthest and least regarded end of the fringe of spectators at the Sheepdog final. This was sitting by the Show-ring at the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show with half the hobbits in the Shire keenly watching every single thing that happened here today, and most especially what occurred at or near the Trophy table - right next to which, he and Frodo were sitting. They weren’t on the side where they’d be shielded from the general view by a constant jostle of exhibitors impatiently awaiting their dues, neither, for Sam had chosen the other, knowing from experience they’d see a deal more from there. Moreover, Mr Bilbo was sitting just in front of them, barely an ell away, and it weren’t easy to ignore the uncomfortable feeling he had eyes in the back of his head. Sam could dare no more than handholding, with that piercing (if imaginary) gaze upon him. He thought it lucky, now, that Frodo had taken his nap earlier - nestled cosily against Sam’s thigh as he’d been. 

Following the individual livestock awards came the tradeshobbits in their vehicles. Strictly speaking, most of them had little connection with livestock, beyond their use of ponies, but their inclusion added spectacle and variety to the proceedings - and (mostly) generous donations to the GAFFS funding. Almost every business that owned a conveyance worth the looking at was entered at the Show, and even those who had won not a thing found it expedient to extend the spectacle on this last afternoon, bringing his or her emporium or service to the attention of a captive audience.

Both the first and second prize-winning turnouts were drawn by black ponies, but there the similarity ended. The pair that pulled the funeral carriage was finely matched, all dished faces, neat flanks and slender legs. The gloss of sunshine on their coats was rivalled in the lustre of silver on well-polished harness, and every inch of the carriage itself was burnished to a gleam. Art Goodbody catered to deceased gentlehobbits of the West Farthing, and brought an imposing presence to the proceedings both there and here; coat as black and linens as white, reins primly held in black-gloved hands, all was fully as solemn as if he really were conducting one of the departed to his or her last resting place. But Deelan, both son and apprentice, was barely out of his tweens; in the absence of a corpse he was quite prepared to forget his funeral face and wave happily to the friends and neighbours who watched the stately procession. 

The coffin rest, that might have been thought to put something of a damper on the afternoon, was topped now with huge and riotously colourful flowers, fashioned from crepe paper. Such deliberate gaiety contrived to counter any such gloomy reminder upon so joyful an occasion. The overall effect was of a person, dour and unyielding, who had decided on a whim to attempt the notion of _fun_ ; finding it sufficiently acceptable for the moment, though determined upon a return to normal as soon as circumstance should allow. But Mr Goodbody’s impressive ensemble fully deserved the second place it had won, and he wore the blue rosette upon his coat with much satisfaction.

First prize, the red rosette and a truly imposing trophy had, however, been awarded to a far less splendid, far more homely effort. The team of ponies that drew the heavy coal wagon were of a sturdier make - all strong shoulders and glossy, well-rounded rumps - their shaggy legs washed and combed out to the same nicety as their masters’ feet could show today.

Many a householder barely recognised the sturdy coal-heaver he or she must have met with regularity through the winter. Each face was scrubbed to a veritable shine, each body clad in the wearer’s best, but sporting also his - equally well-scrubbed - apron and cap; the latter’s protective drape now keeping sun rather than coal dust from the back of his neck. The wagon was quite clearly newly painted, a practical black for the most part, but with the wheels picked out in red and cream for the occasion. The team’s harness bore plumes and plaited ribbons today, their colours echoed in the brightly ubiquitous crepe paper flowers – smaller, here, but equally effective in bringing a festive air to a working conveyance. Even the chunks of dwarf-bought coal that peeped from the tops of brand new canvas sacks – even _they_ were washed and polished till they reflected sunlight like some darkly exotic, precious stone. Sam and Frodo were not the only hobbits to approve the judges’ recognition of the extent of care and effort here, set into the transformation of an everyday sight to a thing of beauty well worth the looking at. Most of the audience showed their appreciation in the clapping of their own hands together, of course, rather than a silent squeeze of one to another, and a quietly shared smile. 

In third place rode Tilsom Oldacre senior, best coat much in evidence - not least from the aroma of mothball it diffused so generously; his workaday breeches being conveniently concealed from view since he sat to drive. The same grey mare had drawn that same milk float around Hobbiton and Bywater for more years than Sam could remember. Bluebell knew each stop and start as well as or better than her master, her pace notably quicker on the way to those homes where the mistress or her offspring might be relied upon to offer such small treats as a hard-working pony would most appreciate. Old Til had been heard to claim – after the rare indulgence of a gill or two at the Ivy Bush – that if only she’d grow hands, he could leave the milk round to Bluebell each morning, and maybe lie abed longer than a farmer could otherwise afford. He derived considerably less satisfaction from the customary replacement, during her periodic absences from duty in pursuit of maternal engagement elsewhere; the bay gelding was somewhat less intelligent, and altogether less cooperative. Bluebell’s bridle sported the yellow, third rosette - on the side the crowd would see, of course - its colour rivalled by the warmer gleam of brass banding the great wooden churns that brought milk daily to the doorsteps of local homes. 

Many another trap, cart or wagon followed the prize winners, bearing clear evidence of the love and care that had gone into their cleaning and sometimes quite fanciful decoration. The Sandyman wagon was by comparison a slovenly affair, the miller’s white apron put to shame by the colour of the finest flour ground from the generous sheaves with which the wagon was mostly draped – sheaves bein’ lighter to shift than full sacks, Sam thought, when it’d be Ted as had the carryin’ of them. He was considering whether he may be just a trifle biased in the matter when a nudge of arm and the doubting twist of Frodo’s mouth said that, if so, he was not the only one.

The ring began at last to empty of animals and vehicles of all kinds, and the hobbit with the truly impressive vocal capacity came forward and roared, ‘AND FINALLY…’ into the Secretary’s megaphone.

The crowd seemed to thicken on the instant, as hobbits young and old appeared from every corner of the Showground - Rides, stalls and even refreshments all forgotten for the moment. Not every hobbit had a friend or relative who tended livestock, and many lacked sufficient interest to sit through what admittedly became a long-drawn ceremony; but almost all had a youngster or ten within their extended family who had competed in the Show this year.

The timing of the Junior Parade and Prize-giving was deliberate; it assembled the stray offspring who had disappeared during the course of the afternoon, so they might be fed and watered and suitably disposed before the evening’s festivities began. Also, it helped ensure the rosettes given out so generously here might survive long enough to be shown off, and thus to be taken home, either tonight or tomorrow. With families as big as they so often were, there were classes at the show for hobbits of all ages, many of the junior categories being the same as those in which their parents also competed. But there had been races organised for them too, on this last day, so those with few skills in the kitchen or at handicrafts as yet, might have the chance to show off their prowess in running or leaping, or the balance needed to race within a sack, or with one leg tied to a friend’s. 

All but the very youngest took part in a class of one kind or another, as clearly evidenced by the white rosettes - announcing **Competitor 1400** in bold black letters - worn so proudly on small chests everywhere. The accolade of a coloured, prize-winning rosette may elude most of them, but a competitor’s rosette was earned by the entering of a class, and that also was a matter for pride; a truly industrious lad or lass might seem to wear a waistcoat of them. Cups and trophies, of course, could be only for the few, but every single entrant had this chance to march proudly around the Show-ring, smiling and waving to the parents, friends and relatives who cheered them on.

The final presentations of the afternoon were received by the entrants in the Junior Fancy Dress Competition. Having failed to discover Bilbo in time, Mistress Broadbottom had clearly inveigled Mr Roderic Underwood into that office instead, for he was to present the trophies. Sam was expecting the squeeze of hand from Frodo and returned it with a broad grin. Neither of them took his eyes from events in the ring, but the words _just retribution_ hovered unspoken in the air between them. 

Within the ranks of the more prosaically fashioned junior Quick Post runners, milkmaids, and shirriffs on display, walked more fanciful creations: clowns – the notion borrowed, but creatively embroidered, from the Little Show; princesses and worryingly-masked goblins; the odd wizard in his father’s grey dressing gown and bearing at least a passing resemblance to Gandalf. There were animals, too, often requiring the cooperation of more than a single hobbit. One little lad bore on his head a mask that rose into a truly impressive rack of antlers, painstakingly constructed of strips of old copies of the _Hobbiton Advertiser & Bywater Times _ flour-and-water-glued in layers, braced upward by small but well-shaped branches. His body was swathed in the brown blanket stretched to also cover the mostly invisible friend or brother who supplied the nether half of the deer. Another pair emulated a white-spotted bull in similar fashion; Sam couldn’t help but hope their mother had agreed to that amount of whitewash on one of her good blankets. Clearly, going by the grumbles and squabbles escaping from mask and cover, playing the back half of _any_ thing was far less fun than the front; and all the poking and squirming quite disrupted the illusion.

Sam hoped most sincerely that he would never have the judging of so disparate a collection of costumes – worse even than the setting of one real animal’s good points against another’s; with the livestock, at least, there would be fewer hurt feelings amongst the vanquished – and fewer relatives in attendance to take umbrage at imagined slight. 

Having afforded the audience time to register, in time-honoured if somewhat raucous fashion, their approval of the variety of beings and occupations paraded before them, the three winners of the different age levels were summoned before the table, where Mr Underwood awaited them. The trophies were bestowed at last upon a diminutive duckling, almost riotously yellow in a fuzz of crepe paper (no older but somewhat less prone to ‘accident’ than Master Pippin, Sam noted); a prettily gracious princess; and a highly padded and naughtily accurate replica of His Worship the Mayor. 

Then, with a huge grin of appreciation, Will Whitfoot himself rose up to declare the end of the afternoon’s ceremonies. He thanked the participants old and young, whatever their contribution to the afternoon’s spectacle; bestowed compliments generously - and most particularly upon those whose hard work behind the scenes made such spectacle possible; and chucked young Mel under what chin he could find, beneath all the padding, to show there were no hard feelings. Moving swiftly to more pressing matters, he pointed out (rather redundantly) that it was teatime already. He was not the only hobbit whose eyes were glistening - and stomach rumbling - at the aroma of roast pig now beginning to permeate the entire Showground; a pair of porkers being destined to form the centrepiece of the evening’s feast. Anticipation must be satisfied for the time being with a pot of tea, a selection of sandwiches and the odd bun or three - after which, the Mayor reminded them now, there was still much to be done before the final stages of proceedings. With a final hope that everyone would join in and help wherever they could - so no hobbit need miss a single minute more than necessary of the evening’s pleasures - he bowed and made off through the smattering of applause at as fast a toddle as he could manage, to where he knew his own tea awaited him already; there were, after all, _some_ privileges attached to the mayoralty. 

Of course, he hadn’t actually got very far into his little speech at all, before individual hobbits were creeping away from the ring already, to get to the refreshment tent in advance of the serious queues that would soon form. Families and groups began rising from their seats, adjusting bonnets and straw hats, and assembling baskets, parcels, string bags and children for properly concerted forays in that direction.

Bilbo had turned to Frodo with a discreet jerk of his head – a reminder of the task he’d usually fulfil at this point: the swift fetching of a well-filled tea tray to the judges’ small tent; the latter being closer at hand and a pleasanter venue in every respect for a comfortable afternoon repast than the always polite but somewhat heated scrimmage that would occur before the general hobbit appetite for refreshment could be met.

Normally speaking, of course, Sam simply would have seen that nod from across the ring; _normally_ , he’d not have spent the best part of the past hour or so holding - discreetly caressing - Frodo’s hand. In previous years, he was unlikely to have been beside Frodo at all - he’d have watched the Grand Parade alongside whatever family or friends he happened to be with at the time. He’d be ready now to make a start on loading the straw bales, tables and chairs onto a couple of carts to shift them to where they were needed next – around the evening’s ‘dance floor’. (The reward for such altruism being as big a tea as they could eat, so the task was quite popular with teen and tween lads, except those whose bellies were too sharp set already.) 

What he’d definitely _not_ have been doing was wondering what came next twixt him and Frodo, and whether the loss of Frodo’s fingers laced through his would be a longer parting than he’d like – maybe even till the dance began. He’d hopes already for the dancing. P’raps not so much under the lights, where they’d likely draw attention Mr Bilbo may not like to see, but in the shadows…

The lingering squeeze to his fingers said he was maybe not the only one with such plans in mind, though. The whisper of, ‘I’ll bring tea for the three of us, Sam – don’t go far!’ was close enough against his cheek for warm breath to count almost as a kiss, and then Frodo was up and away. Sam was left to wonder if Mr Bilbo had seen that, and also what he might say to such an invitation without so much as a by-your-leave. 

For Bilbo was beckoning to Sam now to help the Secretary collect up the last of her paperwork. ‘By the time the carts are loaded, Frodo will be back with our tea,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late!’ and he set off for the small tent at a leisurely pace.


	25. Show Day the Third – Early Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much sorting and moving to be done; Sam makes an offer which is both accepted and reciprocated; and it is not only the conclusion of the Show that draws ever closer…
> 
> Rating: R - but purely for R♥mance
> 
> With a most beautiful illustration gifted by Notabluemaia

You could say what you liked of the wiles of unwed lasses – and sisters, thought Sam. When they made up their minds that a thing’d be done, then done it was - even if they weren’t up to doing the whole job theirselves.

He paused at the edge of the bustle they’d set in motion, his arms full of proof of the persuasive powers of his own eldest sister. At least he weren’t alone in feeling their effect, for Daisy had got Lin Oldburrow working with the best of them – though he’d an entirely _different_ reason for the fetching and carrying, o’course. 

By tradition, even those lasses without benefit of a family wagon may, with propriety, sleep over in order to attend the Celebration Ball, for a dormitory of sorts was provided tonight. Not for them, of course, the rough and ready conditions that satisfied the lads, no rows of blanketed sausages sleeping on errant batts of straw; hence the level of frenzied activity at one end of the vast Produce and Handicrafts tent.

Most of the foodstuffs laid out there so proudly for inspection were gone already, loaded onto trays and dispatched to the refreshment tent to play a central role in the feeding of this multitude of hobbits. Another of the many long-held, cherished customs that surrounded the Show said all items remaining edible on the final day may be sold for consumption, to the increase of GAFFS funds; either at teatime past or the supper to come (some very few being tactfully disposed of, as necessary). Admittedly, one or two may be a trifle past their best, and not every exhibit warranted the same degree of admiration; but the standard of expertise (and edibility) was reflected in the asking price, and what little remained of the baked goods after tea was despatched swiftly enough by the teen and tween washers up. Any hobbit who seriously mistrusted the culinary skills of his or her friends and neighbours (or, in fact, of complete strangers) was, after all, at liberty to purchase instead of the additional - and necessarily copious - supplies from Botham’s Bakery ( _“Bywater’s Best: Purveyors of Breads and Fine Confectionary to Gentlehobbits and to the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show”_ ). 

Vegetable exhibits would find themselves cooked up later, to accompany the porkers that had been roasting so aromatically for what seemed like hours already; whilst the fruits (those, at least, which had survived their time on display without donning furry grey jackets) were combined into a vast salad to be eaten with cream, skimmed from the day’s milk before the pigs received their share. Any entry of real value to its owner was exempt from donation, of course, unless by; there being a vast difference between a plate of butterfly buns or a pair of pasties, and a large and very rich fruit cake that had been lovingly dosed with brandy over a period of weeks; between a prettily garnished helping of soft cheese in a small dish, and a vast wheel of good hard yellow cheese that’d help feed a hobbit family for a month and more. Bottles of sloe gin, apple brandy and such would likely travel home with their makers, whereas the wines – some of them a mite sharp by now, it must be admitted – were lined up for drinking with the meal.

For Sam, today’s teatime had been rather less enjoyable than he’d hoped. He arrived to discover that the cosy occasion to which he’d become accustomed – himself quite at ease with only Mr Bilbo and Frodo, outside the small striped tent - was not to be. Today, a good many of the judges had also gathered there - understandably so, as a much less fraught alternative to joining the fray in and around the huge and suddenly crowded refreshment tent. The selfsame chairs that’d served to rest their aching feet between classes were now drawn up close to well-furnished tea trays – brought by spouse or friend or relative, as Frodo had for Bilbo – laid at intervals along the very tables that’d held their clipboards, rosette boxes, bowls for washing and the like. It was a cheerful gathering - lively with talk of standards and placings, and redolent of the satisfaction of a job well done (and one which could thus be avoided for at least another year); but Sam felt to be as out of place as a Sackville-Baggins in the rush-floored taproom of a country inn.

Frodo had saved a seat next to him – which were right lucky, Sam thought, for if Frodo hadn’t been waving him to join the throng, he’d likely have taken to his heels at once. It weren’t that he didn’t know quite a lot of the hobbits here to speak a polite _Good day_ to; he just didn’t know most of them well enough for anything more. And even if Mr Underwood weren’t amongst them, there were more than a few who shared his attitude when it came to servants _knowing their place…_ Even Mr Bilbo’s kind, ‘Ah, there you are, Sam!’ and Frodo’s valiant attempts to include him in the ongoing conversation couldn’t make him feel at ease. And it definitely weren’t no place for hand-holding, that were a fact.

He’d felt naught but relief when Daisy beckoned him – a timely as well as a necessary reminder of his family responsibilities, and of how he’d normally spend this gap of time between tea and the evening’s activities. She and Lin had obviously finished their tea already, and were on their way back from Lin’s wagon with a selection of bags and bundles, and the odd cushion or two Sam recognised as coming from the sofa in the parlour at Number 3. 

For the first and only time in the whole of the Show, he was truly relieved to be out of Frodo’s company, and he couldn’t but feel guilty about it, because it weren’t _Frodo_ as such, at all. Sam caught his eye as he was gathering the empty crocks back onto the tray he’d brought, and nodded toward Daisy, to tell where he was off to. A glance back, though, just before he went into the big marquee, said Frodo would not soon be following, to lay claim to his own entries. He and the other younger hobbits from their teatime were collapsing the trestles and stacking them, as their elders, for the most part, carried away such judgely belongings as might be their own.

Even without Daisy’s peremptory summons, Sam could scarcely have expected to sit at ease much longer anyway, for this was now the busiest part of the day; all must be done and dusted before the fun could begin. The usual late afternoon bustle and hum were rising to a positive hubbub, the widespread rush of industry spurred on by a bubbling anticipation. The customary chores were still to see to, of course - stalls and booths to pack away, more carefully for being the very last time, though hopefully with very little left to pack. There were still youngsters to pack off to bed after a good supper, and livestock, as ever, to tend – on top of the many and varied preparations for the night’s activities. 

Carts and carriages a-plenty were leaving the Showground even now; quite naturally, since not every hobbit retained a youthful taste for dancing. With maturity, many gained instead a considerably enhanced respect for the comfort of their own beds, especially those exhibitors who had already spent several nights on a surface a good deal less yielding than the plump of feathers. With home perhaps not more than an hour or three away at best, such hobbits reckoned it to be fully worth the effort of travelling now - often leading or driving their livestock – for the blessed collapse when they arrived at last and all was settled, for the night and for the year. 

Nonetheless, quite a number of today’s visitors were intending to remain on the Showground until late, relying on a still mostly full moon to get them to nearby homes; and not a few reckoning to stay over on this final night. Temporary beds were the order of the day, set down wherever - in wagons and carriages already furnished with bedclothes from home, and in the lads’ tent, full now almost to overflowing. Between leaving and staying, the effect was most clearly to be seen in and around the vast marquee in which produce and handicrafts from across the Shire had been so proudly displayed.

Hobbits of every age, size and girth were bustling in and, most of them, quite quickly out again. It was noticeable that those of marriageable age – or at least an optimism thereof - tended to enter carrying bulky bundles and filled baskets and remain; whereas older or younger ones mostly went in unencumbered and emerged fully laden. These last had reclaimed, from beneath the tables, the boxes, baskets or bags brought on the first day, now carefully repacked with their own, their families’, and many an absentee exhibitor’s precious entries. There was much pausing, of course, to exchange last words with friends and with acquaintances from afar who may not be met with again until the next year’s Show; and it was a rare hobbit indeed who did not contrive to ensure that any and all rosettes won remained perfectly visible atop the burdens they carried. 

The burdens being brought _into_ the tent, of course, were of an entirely different nature. They were mostly new-brought onto the Showground this day, and belonged to excited, chattering lasses, each one eager to set them down and lay claim to a chosen bed for the night. Almost every lass was attended by at least one lad, keen as mustard to assist, and thus, perhaps, to secure a prospective dancing partner. In addition to the optimistic tweens, there was a solid core of older hobbits, like Lin, with a sweetheart of their own to provide for. All of them proved quite amenable to the direction, encouragement or enticement - as required by the transformation now underway - which the lasses were perfectly content to supply. 

On either side of the tent, now, a hobbit was perched on a chair - one fixing a wire just above head height, the other waiting to pull it taut across the width, once well-secured. A line of sturdy lads stood ready with the heavy canvas partition that would be hooked onto it - the entire marquee being too large and inhospitable for a bedroom, even for this single night. A few of the emptied trestles were being re-grouped in one corner, where the provision of ewers and bowls would soon make a small washroom; others were swiftly (and quite noisily) collapsed, and flipped over to lie flat upon the grass. With batts of straw laid snug within their underframes, these makeshift beds, Daisy had told Sam, were surprisingly comfortable.

Lin’s own bed would be set up already in the back of the wagon he’d come in, of course – in the remotest part of the Showground he could find, Sam would safely wager. He knew fine well the pair would make good use of that afore ever Daisy slipped in here, for appearances’ sake, to take the pallet Lin lovingly set out for her. And, _surprisingly comfortable_ or not, hers would be far from the only one to lie empty half the night. 

Sam paused for a hard look at Jem Whittier whom he suspected of taking to himself a mite too firmly May’s every word. But Jem only looked back at him, serious-like; giving Sam to believe he were maybe interested in more than an evening’s fun with his sister. Sam nodded, hopefully indicating his watchfulness and care for her. When all were said and done, though, both lad and lass were several years older than him, and it was to be hoped they knew their own minds as well as he knew his.

Blankets, pillows and well stuffed packs laid each lass’s immediate claim to a temporary bed just as soon as it was laid down. If Sam had not sisters of his own, he'd have reckoned they’d everyone of them fetched finery enough for a month of balls, let alone the single overnight stay. He’d always been amazed at the amount of baggage Daisy and May would bring – they’d spend hours assembling and discarding what they may or may not need, while Mari looked on disconsolately. Clothing and other necessities for all four days made for Sam a pack less than half the size of any _one_ of theirs. 

Being wise in the way of lasses when vanity was even whispered, he kept his mouth prudently closed on the subject of the sudden rash of squares of looking glass in neat wooden frames. These were far more accurate than the ones he and Frodo had laughed at themselves in. Hung at a suitable height for prinking, they would see much use once the partition was firmly in place, the lads shooed away, and the serious business of adornment could begin at last.

‘Set that lot down there, Sam, and then get on with the rest of the stuff. May’ll have put all ours together, ready for you – it only wants fetching,’ said Daisy, in her element and at her most brisk. ‘You'll only need to sort out Gaffer’s things and your own.’

The product of May’s collecting was a cluster of baskets, clearly labelled GAMGEE, flaunting more than one rosette apiece and flanked by two large plants - Mari’s and Daisy's. The luxuriant Mind-your-own-business had been beaten to a third place yellow, but Mari’s scarlet easily matched her geranium’s own blossoms. The edibles were gone, of course - Sam thought with no small regret of a certain plate of curd tarts, rightfully awarded a first rosette, and thus affirming quite definitively that Bell’s recipe was more than safe in the hands of her eldest daughter - but Show entries had also their attendant items for display. The baskets were still quite heavy enough with emptied plates and dishes to carry home, and with jars of the various jams and chutneys from the pantry at Number 3. The very lightest contained the girls’ needlework; Sam weren’t exactly sure what may be in there, but its wicker handle bore two green rosettes and a blue, and he found himself hoping that at least one may be May’s, to balance out the luck.

There weren’t much to find of Gaffer’s. His entries had all been fruits and veg, so Sam had only their boxes and baskets, and the velvet-covered tray - with a pleasing haul of rosettes, of course - to add to the collection. No, there was his little box of tools for last minute finnicking, too – and woe betide Sam if _that_ got left behind. 

It took three trips apiece for him and Lin to take all to Lin’s wagon, what with Lin’s Ma’s stuff too. She and his Dad had only come for the first two days, for the Jam and Ingenuity classes and then the livestock. Sam could almost feel Lin’s relief at that, since it meant his wagon could be drawn up, as Sam’d suspected all along, at the far end of the farthest field. It was arranged that he would drive Daisy and May home early next morning, bedding, baskets, bundles and all. Sam thought, but didn’t say, that the shifting could as well have waited till then, being far quicker and easier with the wagon right outside. It seemed Daisy didn’t want it all underfoot, though, when she’d better things on her mind; and, of course, she hadn’t the carrying of it. 

Family duty done at last, he thought next of Frodo’s entries, for he’d still not arrived – inveigled into yet another job for the Show Secretary, like as not, Sam reckoned. Then there’d be his own things. He supposed he should by rights have taken them with Gaffer's, but he wanted… well, he couldn't rightly put into words what he did want, not yet, but he knew he wanted Frodo there when they _were_ collected, that were a fact.

The crowds had thinned appreciably by this time, and many of the tables left standing had a forlorn air about them, often as not with no more than a lonely entry or two at either end, waiting to be reclaimed. Impatient tweens lingered in pairs for these last few items to be cleared before pouncing on the table, to collapse its legs and haul it up onto the growing pile that would be taken back into storage on the morrow. They made a competition of it, of course, and tallies were strictly kept.

Paintings and the like had needed no tables, and were hung or pinned by classes from a specially constructed zigzag of panels that ran down the centre of the tent (extra points for the lads that’d get to fetch that down). It was the work of a minute to collect Frodo’s entries, but took rather longer to string all three frames safely together and contrive a somewhat thicker handle at the top, so Frodo wouldn’t lose the circulation to his fingers in the carrying. Sam left them by the corsage class to make a quick trip for the tobacco jar and his carved otter, and all were done - just as quick and easy as that.

Carefully, he re-folded the swirling, watered silk with the pink satin cushion cover, hoping he could prevail on one of the girls to give each a cautious wash-and-iron before he returned them to Bag End. The silk was unmarked, of course, but the satin showed spots from the regular spraying he’d given the corsage - his buttonhole too, of course, but the hanky being his own, any watermark it bore could matter only to him.

Sam retrieved his tray from beneath the table, empty now of the plant material it had brought. It was fashioned after a knife box, the central handle enabling it to be carried in one hand. His little box of tools fit neatly into one side, and in the other lay his otter - loosely wrapped in silk and satin for safekeeping – with Frodo’s wooden jar. He grinned ruefully but, short of squashing them unforgivably into the minimal space between trimmers and sprayer, there really _weren’t_ no other place to put their small but satisfying haul of rosettes than to tie them to the handle, allowing the tails to flutter brightly all around.

He collected his buttonhole next, pushing and tugging until the flower and its accompanying twist of fern sat firmly in the top hole of his waistcoat, in place of the button. ’Twere a pity he’d not thought to bring his jacket, to set it off proper, but never mind; it looked perfectly presentable still, which were a lot more’n could be said for Mr Meridew’s abandoned rose. He’d been quite right about it winning the first place red rosette for him, with Sam’s carnation taking the blue - but Sam’s assessment had also been correct. All that was left on the square of black velvet, of that proudly golden flower, was a sad knot of withered stamens amid a scatter of petals, dry brown edges already crisping into the softly sueded yellow. It were fit for naught but the compost bin that stood in the horticulture section, almost full already. Well, a plucked flower were a dying flower soon or late, choose how, and at least this one’d had its moment of glory. 

Last of all, he turned to take up the corsage, pleased it still showed so well. He’d somehow found a minute each day, to damp down the tissue wrapping on his two entries, and to spray lightly against the drying air, so even on this third day both were more than fresh enough to wear. The unfurling buds he was sure had captured the judges’ hearts and won him not only the red rosette of which he’d dreamed, but the tri-coloured Special, too, were near to full-blown roses now, their mate the promising one. And the perfume was well nigh intoxicating, up close… Shut your eyes, breathe deep, and the dizzying thoughts roamed far beyond velvet kisses, to warm nights and warmer bodies—

‘Sam?’ Frodo’s voice - sounding just a little tight maybe - startled him back into the present. ‘It’s very beautiful, still. Do you—do you have a lass in mind to present it to?’

He turned slowly. ‘Nay, sir. I wouldn’t want any of them getting the wrong idea.’

‘But it _is_ the custom, Sam.’ 

Sam could not look at him, but riffled the fingers of his empty hand through the rosette tails dangling proudly round his tray. ‘I said, sir – I said _no lass_.’ They’d teased and—and, yes, _flirted_ long enough, he realised. This was more, far more than that - far more even than a simple rousing of the blood. Now it came to it, though, he weren’t sure he _could_ —

But it were past time, now, for flirtation or for tease. Time now, he knew, for full truth between them at last, one way or another. What had happened here – when they'd ventured _a little to one side of the real thing,_ as Frodo called it – could not be left this way. An end – or a beginning - must be found. 

These few days of the Show, their attraction had been a bit like the figures of a country dance, he thought. Forward, back, circle and cross hands, forward, back, and again; never a commitment to holding close and closer, no match of steps to the needs of mind and body; the needful words never actually spoken. He understood now that he weren’t the only one to feel unsure. They were _both_ afraid an advance too far may meet only rebuff, and a retreat that’d never end. Hope and yearning could take you only so far, and if Frodo had decided on this time out of time to reveal himself to Sam, then Sam must leave him in no doubt as to _his_ feelings.

Their _time out of time_ was drawing inexorably to its close. 

He needed only the courage to risk that final step.

‘It would be a pity to waste it,’ Frodo was saying, as he reached a gentle finger to one smooth petal. ‘None of the others can match it for beauty.’

 _None of the flowers, mayhap_. Summoning every last bit of daring he possessed, Sam held out the tiny bouquet. ‘Would—would _you_ like it, sir? It looks well against your coat.’

This was no more than truth, for Frodo’s velvet jacket held the shadowed blue of late evening skies. Its colour called to the darkness of the rose, yet gleaned every last scintilla of its crimson; the cornflowers sang vividly to their darker kin beneath, and tiny points of light danced a nimble haze over all.

But Sam’s hesitant offer went far beyond the flowers, and Frodo would surely not mistake its import, now.

He stilled, and for a long moment he said nothing. Sam wondered if this was, at the last, an advance too far - if Frodo may yet refuse him. 

The noise and bustle of the hobbits around them faded suddenly, and for Sam there was no-one but Frodo, speaking softly now, and smiling. 

‘Thank you, Sam,’ was little more than a whisper, but each word slithered keenly over Sam’s skin, dipping low and silky. ‘I shall be the finest-decorated hobbit at the ball.’

Sam had to drop his eyes from the brightness of Frodo’s gaze. He blushed at the implied accolade, but more for the silent mayhem that eyes and husky voice were rousing in his blood. Needing a refuge, he grasped at practicality. ‘Oh, but it needs pinning, and may spoil your coat, sir!’

‘I have other coats, Sam, but only this one chance to wear such beauty as a gift from you.’

Sam gave up all notion of _practical_. ‘I would wish always to give you beautiful things, Mr Frodo.’ He heard echoes in his own voice of the soft rasp of Frodo’s that inflamed him so. Would Frodo?

He looked up, but Frodo’s eyes were veiled now, lashes smudging black lace shadows on flushed cheeks; unfathomable, as he asked, ‘Would you gift me the most beautiful of all, Sam?’ 

‘Whatever I have to give is yours, sir, if you only wish it.’ _Ask, sir, please ask it of me - please let this be true!_

‘And if—’ Frodo hesitated, ‘—if I wished the giver to be the gift?’

‘Then the gift would be well-given, and gladly.’ _And with so much love._ He dared not speak the last, not yet.

‘Sam, I would offer in return, to give as I receive - but my gift would be given in love.’ A question without words, hopeful upon the air.

Sam’s heart leapt and sang within him, even as he murmured his answer. ‘Given and received in love again…’

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v462/Tiriel/?action=view&current=Givenandreceivedinlove.jpg)

Frodo’s eyes flicked wide, their blue as dark and deep as ever Sam had seen. And there was that within which called urgently to Sam, taking the shadowed heart of the rose’s promise – _warm nights, warmer bodies_ – to a pledge of desire beyond any dream, now.

‘Thank you, my Sam,’ he said, and raised his hand once more to the corsage that lingered almost forgotten in Sam’s grasp. This time the gentle finger slid unhesitatingly from dark velvet petal onto skin, and Sam shivered beneath his touch. This could still be neither time nor place for more - not yet - but still they were coming, and very soon. The smile was warm and quiet between them, the knowing enough, for now.

‘Frodo? Samwise! Ah, there you are! Oh, yes indeed – and still full worthy of every accolade it has received,’ Bilbo said of the corsage in Frodo’s hand. He looked quizzically at the pair of them but made no further comment. ‘Do you have pins?’ 

‘Pins?’ Frodo seemed not to know the word, but stood, looking at Sam. 

‘To pin it on with, lad! Do buck up!’ Bilbo said impatiently. He marched over to where a last gabble of matrons was collecting up crafts and rosettes with more words than haste - to the disgust of a pair of hovering tweens, waiting impatiently for the table against which plump hips rested as their final tales were told. He asked for and was given a paper of pins, and when he came back to them, Frodo and Sam had neither moved nor spoken, only their eyes making promises that were no-one else’s to hear. 

Bilbo prodded Frodo’s shoulders this way and that, to get the corsage to sit to best advantage. ‘Keep _still_ , Frodo! How do you expect me to do this without pricking you, if you wriggle so much?’

But Frodo _was_ still, his eyes on Sam’s, and Sam read quite clearly there the disappointment that it was Bilbo doing this, _his_ hands on Frodo, not Sam’s; his head so close that, had it been Sam, there may well have been an almost accidental brush of hand to cheek, and his palm would have tingled to the softness he found there. One of them may have begun to say something perhaps, and the other turned to listen - into an accidental slide of mouth on mouth, sweet and damp and hasty… 

‘There! Yes, indeed, well done, Sam – and to think that rose was bred at Bag End!’

‘All the best things come from Bag End,’ Sam said, half in jest and wholly in earnest as he looked at Frodo.

Bilbo turned and eyed him closely. 

Sam realised how forward he had spoken, and stammered, ‘S-sorry, Mr Bilbo, sir, I j-just meant—’

‘I know perfectly well what you meant, Sam Gamgee.’ Bilbo looked from one to the other. Sam weren’t sure about himself, but he rather thought he might be glowing; he knew Frodo was. ‘Frodo?’

‘Uncle Bilbo?’ Frodo said no more, but in his smile was all that was needed. ‘Do you have another pin?’ he asked, then.

Bilbo passed one to him carefully, and Frodo reached to take out the carnation from Sam’s button hole. ‘I think this would look much better just _here_ ,’ he said, laying it gently above Sam’s heart. He pinned it deftly to the waistcoat, his hands perfectly steady, though he was close enough for Sam to feel the quickness of his breath. Then he laid his fingers to either side of it and said, very quietly, ‘For you, my Sam,’ and Sam could only look back at him and smile.

‘Well, it took the pair of you long enough, I must say! Now, just be—’ Sam could have sworn that he was going to say ‘careful’, in exactly the tone the Gaffer used to admonish their lasses before a night’s festivities. It seemed that he remembered at the last minute that neither of them was a lass to need such a warning, for he smoothly substituted, ‘ _sensible_ , both of you!’’ 

He nodded to the entries Frodo and Sam were gathering up, with attendant rosettes, and said jovially, ‘So, we shall be celebrating on several fronts, tonight! There should be another cask of Triple from the Toad and Bucket to do it with, too - though I’d not have more than the one, if you’re thinking of dancing. I think _I_ may safely indulge, however, since I’ll not be driving.’ Despite the closeness of Bag End, Bilbo had opted to share Will Whitfoot’s room at the Farthing Stone Inn rather than drive home so late and alone. 

To the relief of a pair of lads just waiting to snatch up the emptied table, they set off for the entrance to the marquee. It may look to be almost deserted now by all but a handful of determined gossipers and the industrious tweens, but a great chatter of feminine voices readily contradicted appearances. A very real bustle was concealed by the newly erected partition; a deal of serious prinking was under way at last, and if that meant missing some (or even most) of the final ceremony, well, few if any of the lasses would know themselves to have the chance at a trophy. Only the need to support a family member there would drag most of them betimes from the sharing of finery and turns before a looking glass.

As they emerged into the early evening air, Sam said, ‘I were thinking we’d put all our bits and pieces in the trap, sir, and see to Beechnut at the same time, but with the Bolger lads taking him this morning, I’m not rightly sure where he’ll _be_.’

‘There’s no time for that now!’ said Bilbo in a shocked voice. ‘The prize giving will be starting at any moment - I have to be there and so do you two. But you needn’t worry about the pony, Sam – I paid Tad and Gerol extra to settle him for the night, move his picket and so on. He’ll be fine until morning.’

Sam looked at Frodo; he weren’t sure what he may be thinking, but for himself, Sam had been rather counting on a long, quiet stroll through the gathering dusk to find Beechnut – and maybe a bit of privacy too, once their bits and pieces were safely stowed. Frodo returned his look with a rueful grin that showed he’d had much the same idea.

Bilbo regarded both of them. ‘If you could just contrive to look just a _little_ less lovesick,’ he said, ‘it might be less of a giveaway, you know!’

They laughed together then, and made haste to join the many hobbits now converging for the very last of the formalities of the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show of the year 1400.


	26. Show Day the Third – Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the business of the Show comes to its end in a most satisfactory manner, and other things come to an even more satisfactory beginning. As it were…
> 
> Rating: Yes!

The crowning events of the Show - the Final Presentation Ceremony and the Celebration Ball - did not take place in the Showring itself, symbolic though that may have been. It was quite simply not practical, in the time available, to dispose of the many tangible reminders of an afternoon’s Grand Parading. In truth, however, the ring was also far too large for such an intimate activity, the space within the L formed by the refreshment and beer tents being far more convenient and much cosier, if a trifle uneven here and there. This location provided for a hobbit’s most pressing needs – by way of food and drink – to be most usefully to hand; with the privies at a reasonable, though not intrusive, distance. The possibility of inclement conditions was acknowledged lightly in an arrangement that the two tents may be used in such need. This was, in fact, very seldom necessary, GAFFS being always remarkably fortunate in so far as the weather was concerned.

The mood of the gathering was rather different tonight than for the livestock awards: anticipatory on a far wider front. Most of the Jam and Ingenuity classes offered a trophy of sorts, allowing a fair few hobbits to enjoy their brief moment of glory - and a selection of either cheers or good-natured jeers - as they went up to shake His Worship the Mayor by the hand. It was a somewhat better lubricated affair too, for there were few who had not paused along the way to purchase a mug of something mellowing, if not quite as intoxicating as the Triple Tipple. 

There was undeniably more urgency to the proceedings now. Everyone was eager to have the formalities over and done with at long last, so that the fun of the evening may begin. The ball was keenly anticipated, of course, but many a hobbit looked forward as much (or more) to the supper interval to come, when the succulently tantalising aroma of roast pork would be translated into slices on plates; accompanied initially by a sharp applesauce and at least a modicum of sage and onion stuffing, thereafter by vegetables to taste.

Despite the large, blue-spotted handkerchief that would mop his brow a dozen times at least before all was done, Will Whitfoot proved yet again his supreme suitability for office. This was in no way diminished by the absence - unaccountable, if probably most welcome, by the end of a long day of ceremonial duties - of the onerously gilded, highly symbolic chain of office. His introductory remarks were brief but pertinent, the presentation of each award swift enough but with a satisfying word or two for every recipient; and the ceremony proceeded at quite a cracking pace. Of course, one hobbit’s vested interest – on behalf of self, family or friend - was another’s indifferent yawn. The rise and fall of conversation amongst his audience called, at times, for the resounding voice that was another of His Worship’s prime qualifications. 

The prize giving went on apace as dusk drew rapidly down across the Show field. The strings of coloured lanterns began to triumph over the last of daylight, celebratory against the darkening sky.

Surprisingly few trophies had to be given into the care of proxy holders – it seemed that almost every hobbit who knew him or herself to be amongst the fortunate had contrived to be present tonight. Sam clapped proudly as Daisy left the shelter of Lin Oldburrow’s arm to be presented with her award. That time spent prinking hadn’t been spent in vain, he realised, for she was looking remarkably pretty. The Treadwell Trophy marked her continuing success with Bell’s recipe for the curd tarts that were Mr Bilbo’s favourites. 

His applause was louder still, however, his eyes shining with something very like proprietary pride, when Frodo went up to receive a newly dedicated award – small, but as prestigious as any - for the elegant profile he had made of Sam’s own homely features.

There was no single Best in Show trophy to round off the Handicrafts section, though Lydia Smallpeace – cousin-by-marriage to the generous hobbitwife who had directed Pippin’s early morning energies so expertly into suds – received the final accolade as Most Successful Entrant. She rose to accept her award bedecked in more rosettes, in a greater variety of colours, than most hobbits could hope to win in a lifetime of entries. Her skill with needles of almost any kind, and her hand with barm-raised goods, were well nigh unbeatable; which, it must be confessed, gave rise to more than a little quiet grumbling in places, on the subject of _other hobbits_ having _barely a chance._

Will Whitfoot was well into his stride by the time he began on the Horticultural awards, the ceremony seeming to gain ever greater momentum despite the number and range of trophies available. Hobbit after hobbit came forward, was clapped or cheerily jeered at - depending on the number of friends and relatives present - and returned to his or her seat bearing a shiny award of some description. There would be many a hobbit-hole to boast a sample of fancy silverware for the next year – and many a hobbit-wife to rue the cleaning thereof, prestigious though it be; though with far less room for grievance, of course, if it could be cleaned alongside one that she herself had won. 

Almost before Sam could realise it, the table was bare of all but a single trophy. Rather more than twice the size of any other, it waited imposingly in the very centre - almost dazzlingly bright beneath the many coloured lights.

One last, swift but necessary flourish of the handkerchief, and His Worship drew himself to his most imposing height (and girth). A sudden silence fell.

‘And now,’ he declared in his most portentously mayoral tones, ‘we come to the last and most coveted award in the Horticulture Section – the one requiring the most dedicated application of a hobbit’s skills, and consequently the one most difficult to acquire! It gives me great pleasure to announce that the winner of the Seth Dewberry Cup for the Best Exhibit in Show in the year fourteen hundred is—’ in the ritual pause, Sam heard Frodo’s breath drawn sharply, ‘—Samwise Gamgee of Hobbiton, for his entry in Class 141, a quite _outstanding_ exhibit!’

Not least because it was the very last of a great many awards, the applause was more generous (and a good deal louder) than any. As he went forward to receive it, Sam blushed to the very tips of his ears - which caused not a little laughter. He was so turned about by all the attention that he barely managed his thanks for the Mayor’s most flattering comment upon his skills, let alone a response to the broad hint as to which garden would give a hearty welcome to the new rose, just as soon as Sam had stock and to spare. And there were many curious eyes to follow him as he returned to his place, to the hobbit who glowed there near as bright, clapping enthusiastically and wearing upon his coat a corsage of surpassing beauty.

With some difficulty, Sam slid back onto the corner of the straw bale they were sharing with Mr Bilbo. He ran his fingers almost reverently over the trophy he could still barely believe he’d won. It were so _big_ , for starters – and likely some would call it more than a bit ostentatious. Heavier nor it looked, too, but still elegant and he liked the way the handles swirled out gracefully from its sides. A plaque encircled the base, inscribed with names of past winners over so many years to the present. It’d be a while afore it really sunk in that on this, his very first time of trying, Sam Gamgee belonged there too, in company with so many famous Shire gardeners. His Gaffer had won a time or three, of course, and so had Pasco Meridew - and when Sam looked back through the years, there was Holman Greenhand’s name, over and again. 

‘It’s like a potted history of Shire gardening!’ he whispered to Frodo, but when he looked up, he realised with another blush that Frodo was quite clearly far less interested in lists of gardeners of the past, than in a single gardener of the present.

By the time he could bear to look away from the delight and pride and admiration in Frodo’s face, he found he had completely missed Will Whitfoot’s generous praise and gratitude, both to the exhibitors and to the many helpers who combined to make the Show such a success each year. The judges had been thanked, cheered (or not), and invited to come forward, each to accept the ritual bottle of wine that was the only reward for his or her trouble; and the gathering was breaking up with alacrity, now.

Musicians began to assemble with their instruments, and many an awardee to place his or her trophy back on the table for safekeeping during the dancing. Not a few hobbits (mostly male) were surging toward the beer tent for refills, and small pockets of gossipers (mostly female) began already to re-form on the bales set handily around the dance square, or at tables inside the refreshment tent. Even there, it was perfectly possible to feel a part of - and comment freely upon - whatever was happening outside, for the heavy canvas sides had been removed completely in the heat.

And somehow, while Sam was holding up his trophy for Mr Bilbo’s close inspection, Frodo managed to disappear into the commotion. He might be just that bit taller, as a general rule, but Sam simply couldn’t keep an eye on where he might be off to, while turning such a massive thing carefully enough that Mr Bilbo could see the array of names inscribed on it.

‘Did you never think to try for aught, sir? With your love of plants and all? Mr Meridew's name's there.’ He pointed a thumb in illustration.

‘That’s all I’ve ever been, Sam, a plant- _lover_ \- I’ve never been a gardener, as such. An award for _any_ thing from Bag End’s garden could only ever fairly go to the hobbit who did the work – old Holman, or the Gaffer - or you, from now on!’

It weren’t every master as had such a fair-minded attitude to the produce of his gardens, Sam knew. He could have named more than one disgruntled fellow-gardener whose employer was fully prepared to accept credit where it most definitely weren’t due; and Mr Meridew himself employed quite several gardeners, when all were said and done.

Mr Bilbo was advising him now to get his name inscribed sooner rather than later.

‘For if you leave it until the last minute, Sam, you can be sure that Ted Puffet will be rushed off his feet by so many other dilatory hobbits, all wanting _their_ names and dates inscribed, yesterday if not before, that _S.R.1400 - Samwise Gamgee_ will be as wavery as if he’d had a _pint_ with his lunch. Not to mention that your Gaffer will practically burst with pride to see it there for the full year!’ 

Many another hobbit paused briefly by their bale, with polite greeting for Bilbo and a word of congratulation and a clap on the back for Sam; and Frodo returned before he’d really had time to miss him. He was carrying a mug of ale – a single mug only - which he now presented to his uncle. 

‘Triple Tipple, as requested,’ he said, with something of a flourish.

Bilbo took a slow appreciative draught. As he lowered the mug again, his gaze flicked ostentatiously from Frodo’s hands to Sam’s. ‘You two are not drinking?’ he asked in a bland tone.

Frodo began, ‘I thought we should take—’ just as Sam said, ‘There’s all this to shift—’ each of them trailing off then, but valiantly waving a would-be negligent hand over the accumulation of their belongings.

Bilbo looked at them and shook his head - hiding his attempt _not_ to smile quite well, Sam thought. ‘You’re lingering like a pair of unclaimed mathoms!’ he said then. ‘Well, you’ll not readily find Beechnut in the dark - not carrying that lot - but I rather think you _will_ find the judges’ tent empty right now. I suggest that you take it all and leave it in there until morning. I'll not need this with me, either - can you manage it for me, Frodo? There’s a lad!’ He added his complimentary bottle of wine to their collection, and his eyes twinkled as he said blandly, ‘Don’t be _too_ long, will you, or you’ll miss your supper!’

Frodo threaded a finger and thumb through the handle of his award – a pewter tankard, actually engraved with a fairly anonymous profile – and managed to grasp the bottle with the remaining fingers of his right hand. He took up the strung-together pictures in his left, and grinned at Sam.

‘Ready?’ he said.

Sam hoisted the huge trophy and wrapped one arm around it, hugging it tightly to his chest lest its high polish allow it to slide completely from his clutch. Then he lifted the gaily adorned tool-tray with the other.

‘When you are, sir!’

They set off quite confidently, but just at the edge of the wide circle of brightly coloured lights, Bilbo’s bottle made the first of what would be many bids for freedom. In the effort of a successful save, Frodo’s sleeve slid right back and Sam saw the back of his hand, which now bore two copies of the official GAFFS stamp. It was the custom for a lad who wished to treat his sweetheart to supper to pay and be stamped in advance for the both of them.

He looked up and grinned shyly. ‘I’m no lass, you know!’ he said.

Frodo stopped walking. ‘No,’ he said seriously, ‘but I hope you will let me do this. It’s a quiet way of saying we are together – you don’t mind, do you Sam?’

_Mind?_ Sam’s heart felt to turn over within him at Frodo’s matter-of-fact acceptance that they were already a settled pair. ‘No,’ he said, joy choking at his words, ‘I don’t mind. I—I’d like that very much.’

Frodo’s answering smile held far more than simple relief, and Sam shivered in quiet anticipation. 

Away into the night they wandered, then - not a little dizzy from happiness and expectation - toward the small square tent that stood alone at the far side of the show-ring. It was fortunate that the main showfield was so flat, bright moon notwithstanding, for they’d enough to contend with in what they were carrying, without having to worry about uneven footing, too. Before long, Sam’s arm began to ache, held out in such a wide, unnatural arc; and in his anxiety to spare Frodo’s fingers, he’d allowed just a little too much slack in the string handle he created. The pictures in their frames swayed and twisted against Frodo’s legs so he was in constant peril of tripping; and the wayward bottle was almost as unpredictable as its owner. 

The tent seemed to get no nearer as they struggled onward with their burdens. Sam made more than one attempt to link their little fingers, needing just such a tiny, loving touch along the way, but his trophy threatened a quiet slither if his tight clutch eased by even the smallest trifle; and the tray itself was simply too wide and too unwieldy. For one single, wonderful moment, Frodo managed to angle his thumb just _so_ , in a gentle stroke to Sam’s wrist - but then the wine made its most concerted bid yet for escape, and the pictures contrived a particularly sly and almost successful attempt to bring him down. By the time they pushed their way beneath the canvas flap at last, both hobbits were giggling, teen fashion, in the effort to control both encumbrances and simmering desire.

The moon was full in the sky now, and this smaller tent was made up of a finer canvas through which light spilled more freely. Everything lay within bright or shadowy bands, from the broad striping of blue on white.

Sam could easily make out a line of folding chairs at the far side, and a long table, set endwise to the door. A pile of dried and neatly folded towels occupied the nearer end, alongside an anonymous towel-wrapped bundle. In the centre there was only a disorganised scatter of pencils, clipboards and other bits and bobs. The other supplies necessary for hand washing were tidily arranged at the far end: a stack of empty bowls, the odd ewer or two and a cluster of soap dishes; together with a few discarded jars that proved Bilbo not to be the only judge to patronise Mistress Earthy’s fascinating herbal emporium. 

Frodo leaned his tricksy pictures against the trestle legs, and flexed the blood back into his fingers. Sam merely stood close up to the middle of the table and loosed his aching arm from its fixed position, thankfully letting the huge trophy slide to settle safe amid the scattered debris. He gave the arm a quick shake and set down his tray as Frodo placed Bilbo’s bottle quite deliberately right in the very middle of the table, from where it could not possibly escape. Then there was nothing to hinder a fast and laughing turn into a kiss.

But the laughter vanished in the instant before their mouths met, and the kiss was slow and solemn, as Sam held Frodo truly in his arms at last – supple wiriness where he had only ever known the warmly rounded curves of a hobbitlass. Frodo’s lips were soft and demanding by turns, both yielding to and claiming Sam’s.

He’d only his fantasies to guide him here, and he still didn’t know if Frodo had ever done this with a lad before. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they had each other, and whatever was to know they could find and share, for he knew that naught could truly defeat them if only they faced it together.

And Sam had not known before this exquisite feeling, when he pushed his hips forward to be met, not by a cushiony yielding, but by solid want that struck a sharp, delicious fire into his own. Sam tried a small wriggle, and knew from Frodo’s throaty groan that he had not felt those sparks alone. He answered in careful circles of heat that ground against Sam in the most arousingly wonderful way. Sam realised he – maybe _they_ \- stood in danger of—

‘Wait!’ It was a swift gasp, and Frodo stepped back a little, bowing his head quickly, hands no longer tipping Sam’s face to meet his, but busy at his breast.

Waiting was definitely not what Sam had in mind right now – he’d done so _much_ waiting. He thought suddenly that he’d been waiting for this, growing toward it, from the very first moment he’d seen Frodo and was drawn to him as to no other hobbit before or since – or, he suspected, ever. 

‘Frodo?’

‘The flowers – my love gave me flowers, too beautiful to be crushed between us. Besides…’ 

Despite all shadow, Sam could hear and see the smile cresting the want in Frodo’s murmur. Buttons quickly freed, he slipped from jacket and shirt together, pausing to lay them on the empty chairs, corsage uppermost and safe from harm. He turned then to Sam, who was dizzy indeed now. Movement had stirred the rich perfume of the rose into air caught still and sultry within the tent _…warm nights, warmer bodies…_ and for the first time ever he was free to study his Frodo this way – close, so close - his skin cool and pale and beautiful in the light-banded dark.

‘…besides, I need to feel your skin against mine.’

He only stood and stared as Frodo pushed his waistcoat gently from his shoulders, the aroma of cloves also rising, spicy-sharp, from white-streaked petals as he set it as carefully aside. 

‘This is what I have wanted, my Sam, every morning as I try _not_ to watch you splash at the washing benches,’ nimble fingers took Sam’s shirt out of reckoning before he’d really time to notice, ‘with the sun strong enough to gleam wetly over you, but still low enough to spin a glow into these…’ Sam shuddered as Frodo blew a soft breath across his chest, ‘…these curls, and all I can do is stand beside you, helpless to touch, pretending I don’t see, don’t feel, don’t _want…_ ’ 

But Frodo _was_ touching now, his hands stroking smoothly across Sam’s shoulders. ‘I’ve so needed to caress the warmth of this gold, to feel it ripple – oh, yes, like that! - beneath my touch. Sam, love, you’re shivering! Are you…cold?’ And if the smile was now a laugh, the want showed sharper, too. 

‘Not cold,’ was all Sam could say, what with Frodo pressed warm and hard against him, and his own fingers daring their first, so long longed-for touches; with Frodo’s lips scattering desire across Sam’s skin, his words tumbling damp heat to shiver Sam again.

‘And here, where the water runs so fortunate and free,’ lips and tongue were tracing the line of Sam’s throat, now, ‘I’ve wanted to capture each tiny rainbow from within its droplet, knowing that it must now taste of my Sam.’

‘Frodo?’ 

‘Mmm?’ 

The question was hummed onto Sam’s bottom lip, and just before the delicious tingle took from him all notion of words, he managed a muffled, ‘Stop _teasing_!’

Frodo smothered his laugh into Sam’s mouth. Sam had reckoned he knew a fairish bit about kissing – the more sisters a hobbit possessed, the more access to accommodating friends, after all - but it seemed now that a length of experience were worth any amount of _thinking_. Frodo’s mouth was skilful, his lips mobile and well-practised. He knew just where to flick lightly, and where to drag a slow glide; when to move on in debt to a quick return, and when to linger, tongue swirling such dizzying promises as Sam had never known.

When Frodo drew back at last, they were both panting, and not only with a need for breath. 

‘Still too many clothes, my Sam!’

He slid through Sam’s embrace onto his knees, and all of Sam’s fantasies – crowned by the sudden, clear memory of Frodo at his feet beneath the chill splash of water; of night-dark hair wavering its silky-wet torment to his hands, and the shocking, arrow-swift, arrow-sharp tingle of Frodo’s fingers threading his foothair - all crashed headlong into reality. But, as Frodo looked up at him once more, there was no hurt to the sparkle now. It may be smudged by night’s shadow, but it held the brightness of desire - and more.

Sam realised then. ‘You did it a’purpose! When you stroked my feet like that – you did that all a’purpose!’ 

‘I didn’t know if you would feel it as I do, but I had to try!’ Frodo's smile danced in his words. ‘You must have _known_ what you were doing to me, Sam, surely? The way you were riffling through my hair like that, massaging my head so slowly and – well, I hoped it was lovingly - was I right?’

Sam couldn’t reply - not even with the strong affirmative words he really wanted to use, for Frodo was leaning toward him, one soft cheek grazing gently at the front of Sam’s breeches. Then, still gazing up at Sam, he rubbed firmly to and fro - just where most Sam needed to be touched right then. Since the only sound of which he was actually capable was a pleading, breathless moan, Sam offered that instead. 

'I think you took every _single_ strand and worked it so gently I could almost feel it – the way you slid finger and thumb along each one, caressing it from root to tip, stroking it – stroking me - over and again…’

It was invitation, it had to be, and Sam’s helplessly dangling hands needed no more. They sank gratefully into the mass of silken curls, so different now - no longer spilling sleek and cold across his hands with a busyness of their own, but seeming to wrap his fingers in their subtle warmth. He’d not concentration left for aught more than simply feeling his welcome, but Frodo’s answering moan was proof that little more was needed now.

He was suddenly panting openly, for Frodo had turned his face inward. The breath of his murmured words flowed with full intent through the fabric between, as it had not when Frodo rested his head on Sam only to sleep. And the skin beneath was far more sensitive than any thigh, every last inch taut and straining, the warm huff rousing Sam almost painfully. His hands tightened in Frodo’s hair - their clutch and the edge of the table, harshly unyielding at the back of his thighs, supporting him as he fought to stay upright, to stay where Frodo would keep on doing such things to him.

‘It was lucky the water _was_ so cold, to set at least some check on what I could feel. Oh Sam, you made me so _hard_ , with your fingers on me like that! I wanted – well, what I wanted to do for you was definitely not possible right then!’ The pitch of his voice - lower now and slightly husky - and the neatly working fingers said clearly how glad he was that _not possible_ was become _quite definite_ , now. ‘But I wanted to know if I could make you as hard as I was, if I couldn’t have you there and then – or at all, for anything I knew.’ 

Buttons all undone at last on sturdy tweed and thinner cotton alike, Sam shuddered as Frodo freed him carefully from the last of his clothes. His breath caught loudly as Frodo quite deliberately stroked each foot in turn, teasing artfully at the curls there, encouraging Sam to step right out of breeches and underthings.

‘I could tell you liked it – I’d have had to be blind not to!’ He nuzzled gently at the proof - naked as well as eager, now. ‘It was a good thing you stepped back and Uncle Bilbo came to see what we were up to, or who knows _what_ may have happened!’ 

A pang of sudden guilt tamed the edge of Sam’s urgency. ‘D’you think he knew?’ he asked in a choked voice.

‘Of course he did – he _was_ a lad once himself, you know!’ Frodo’s quiet laugh was a swifter puff of air. It flowed deliciously – both warm and cool - over skin bared now to his touch. 

‘Oh my! And if I’d let you carry on - not a minute longer and it’d’ve been all over! _Will_ all be over! Frodo – _please_!’ Choked words stuttered into a gasp as Frodo licked a single, tantalising, upward stripe and then grinned up at Sam. ‘M-more tease!’ Sam could manage little more than a whimper now.

‘Oh no, my Sam,’ a long, hot breath and another slide of tongue, slow but clearly intent, ‘teasing is for those who entice with more than they mean to give. There is nothing I will not give if you only ask it of me.’ 

_Anything… everything…_ ‘Please?’

‘What, Sam? What do you truly want?’

‘You…’

‘You have me, Sam.’ Frodo sounded so _sure_ , and no way could Sam ever have doubted such sincerity.

And then at last he was enveloped in a steady suction, wet and skilful, that stole his breath clean away. Clearly Frodo _had_ done this before, but Sam was truly grateful for it, here. He leaned fiercely back against the table, needing the reminder of that keen edge to keep his hands from sliding round to take Frodo by the ears; to stop himself from thrusting heedlessly into that hot, tight clutch. Only this precarious balance, now - between narrow wooden edge behind and Frodo’s hands, firm and sure upon his hips in front - to keep Sam from falling further than he’d ever done before. 

Hobbitlasses were widely supposed not to do this at all, though Sam was living proof that there were at least a few who did. Never like this, though. Never so knowing, so aware of exactly what the flat slide of tongue here or a purposeful dart there must do to him. Not so knowing, not so deep, not so _wonderful._

And never before this incredible teasing flicker - right _there_ , on the one spot that’d always, _always_ fling him fast and headlong—

Heart hammering in his chest, stars dancing wild behind eyelids squeezed as tight as the rest of him, Sam’s knees gave out at the last, and he fell regardless.

Frodo was ready for him, carefully easing him down and to the side, so he landed partly under the table - half on cool damp grass, half on something drier and warmer to his skin. He rolled further onto the warmth, pulling Frodo to lie, both softly smooth and fully hard, against him.

‘What’s here?’ he asked, still dazed and breathing hard, but aware enough to worry they may spoil whatever he’d come to rest on. It was a wrench, but he dragged one hand from the wonder of Frodo’s skin to scrabble in the softness of cloth, and found small spots and streaks of stiffness. ‘Oh - it’s only the dust sheets.’

Frodo raised his lips from their trail of kisses to Sam’s neck. ‘Bag End’s, then, and no-one else to care what we do with - or even _on_ \- them!’ He ground solid heat, slow and meaningful, against Sam’s hip.

‘Fair enough,’ said Sam, dismissing all thought of responsibility from his mind; that was a hint if ever he’d felt one.

Nevertheless, he pushed to his knees, hastily dragging the sheets to form a makeshift bed. This may not be exactly how he’d ever envisaged lying with Frodo, but he’d make it the best he could, for all that. 

Frodo moved willingly, eagerly under Sam’s hands as Sam stripped him of his breeches - with great care but not the slightest hint of tease. Much though Sam wanted to take his time and simply look at Frodo, bare and beautiful before him, he wanted more to touch and kiss, to stroke and lick and s— 

Without warning the canvas wall juddered, right next to them, and a lass’s voice said ‘Ow!’ 

Sam froze, just where he was leaning over Frodo, ready to—

‘Are you all right?’ a lad asked. ‘Don’t get too close to the guy-ropes!’

Sam grabbed for something, anything, to cover Frodo - their discarded breeches, the corner of a dust sheet—

‘You could’ve told me that _afore_ I tripped over one!’ she said, and giggled. 

He recognised the influence of strong ale on a constitution wholly unused to its effects. And maybe these two weren’t really intending—

‘The doorway’s this side,’ her swain hissed. ‘Come on!’

Quite obviously he and Frodo weren’t the only pair, tonight, with a pressing need for somewhere more private than hedgerow or wagon. All well and good, but they needn’t think they were coming in _here_. He summoned a perfect imitation of Gaffer’s gruffest, most irritated tone. 

‘You set one foot inside this tent, my lad - a-spoilin’ of my hard-earned rest with your kissin’ and your cuddlin’ - and I won’t half give you what for!’

From a brief flurry of choked breaths came a sudden silence, then a subdued duet chorused, ‘Sorry, sir!’ Snorts of smothered laughter faded rapidly as the two went off to seek a safer hiding. 

Sam was nothing if not practical. They’d been so caught up in the kissing when they got here that the doorway was still unlaced. It couldn’t remain so. 

Just minutes earlier, and that couple could have burst right in on them, with Sam so caught up in the delights of Frodo’s mouth that he’d barely have noticed at all – until after, when they’d have robbed him completely of its magic. He’d not have that happen to his Frodo, even if it meant Frodo must wait just a little longer. Sam kissed him lightly and got to his feet. 

Frodo said, ‘Sam?’ A sharp frustration couldn’t hide his hurt. 

‘The door,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t want nobody seeing you…’ He waved an explanatory hand.

‘I could say the same of you, Sam!’ 

Sam heard the trace of tease and looked down. He was determinedly threading loops of cord through brass eyelets here, as naked as any newborn - if nowhere near as innocent. He grinned through the last few fastenings and hurried back to their makeshift bed.

But Frodo was beyond all humour now, panting softly with need; bursts of air that flitted warm across Sam’s skin as he bent to take up just where he’d left off.

He’d done this for Frodo a thousand times in imagination, but the reality was so much better in every way - the taste of him, his warmth, the velvety heft of him on Sam’s tongue. But the very best part – the part he’d not imagined at all - was how completely Frodo responded to every single thing Sam did to him. And he’d never have thought Frodo could be so vocal in this - not loud, but a good step from silent. 

For every difference in pace, for every change from slow lap to fast flicker - whether Sam sucked hard or released him for a much needed breath; deep or shallow, gentle or determined - whatever Sam did, Frodo made his appreciation plain. His hands flew from Sam’s arms to his shoulders and into his hair, down to some other part of him and back again. They skimmed and clutched and stroked, and sometimes – when Sam was doing something especially good - they dug into him so far, he knew he’d have bruises by morning and didn’t care a jot. And all the while, Frodo was mouthing half-words and sounds, deliciously naughty words and sounds that spurred Sam to find ever more ways to make his Frodo writhe in sinuous figure eights beneath him. 

It couldn’t last forever, of course. Too soon, Frodo’s begging and pleading merged all together in one long and wordless rasp for air as his whole body tightened, rigid under Sam now, jolting and jerking suddenly, and Sam was choking a little at the unexpectedness of it, this first time for him. But it couldn’t bother him over much, for Sam too was jerking and jolting against Frodo and spattering warm wetness over him. 

When he looked up, at last, Frodo’s eyes were shining in the dark, and he pulled Sam down into a kiss, slow and lazy now, sharing the taste of himself in Sam’s mouth. P’raps now there’d be time for him to learn his Frodo with hands and mouth - to touch and kiss and maybe even… Sam smiled, contentment seeping slow as warmed honey through every bit of him. For long moments there was nothing in the world that he lacked - until Frodo lifted up and away, and Sam was suddenly cold, outside and in.

Was that all there was to be?

But Frodo had only reached to find a towel, and came swiftly back to wipe them both carefully clean. He laid another gentle kiss upon Sam’s lips. 

‘I love you,’ he said – as though Sam must know it well already and this no more than a quick reminder to settle them, here. Then he eased himself down onto Sam’s chest, snug beneath his chin - as if he’d fitted there through all their days together, and always would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone sufficiently dedicated to regional accuracy to have noted that curd tarts are a specifically Yorkshire delicacy should perhaps note that, whether or not Andwise Roper lives in the Northfarthing (I incline toward Tighfield being so situated, though there is of course no clear evidence), he has clearly, in GAFFS, acquired something of a northern regional (YorkShire?) accent. His missus, of course, was a local lass who gave the recipe to her sister-in-law when both were new brides… :-) I have lost my own original recipe given me by a lovely lady, now long gone. It was for the small tartlets that Bell & Daisy made, but spiced ones in the link are very similar and may be worth a try


	27. Show Day the Third – Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to their end, yet for some there may be new beginnings…
> 
> Rating: Oh, yes...

Sam drifted back into the world, unsure quite what had woken him. Something was tickling softly at his cheek and he looked down. Frodo’s head was a weight on his shoulder, his breath barely stirring the hair on Sam’s chest. Fast asleep, he realised with a smile, when maybe they should be moving; perhaps putting in an appearance before the end of the ball. He could hear music still playing in the distance, and there may even be a share of the supper left to be eaten. 

He’d some small experience of waking Frodo, back at Bag End, but hadn’t really believed he’d ever have the chance to do so from such wonderfully close quarters. Usually, if second breakfast time approached and Frodo had not yet appeared, Mr Bilbo would bustle along the passage and hammer mightily on his door. Only occasionally would circumstance depute the task to Sam. 

Knocking - at the sort of volume Sam thought proper - rarely had any effect whatever, and he was thus obliged to enter the room, and call _Mr Frodo!_ a goodly number of times; not that Sam was in the least unwilling to perform the task, of course. He’d find himself drawing closer and closer to the hump of ruckled bedclothes with each call, until eventually his own name – sounding quite different when filtered through fine wool blankets and a satin eiderdown; softer somehow and quite melodious – his own name repeated once or twice would prove Frodo to be awake, if not exactly ready for the day. He never seemed to make it out of his dormouse nest of covers, though, before Sam felt he really must leave, for propriety’s sake. It’d not do to be caught by Mr Bilbo, lingering avidly for more of a glimpse of Frodo than dishevelled curls - barely visible on the pillow, or on a sprawled foot escaping the covers - before bright day could claim him.

Now, moonlight leached softly through pale canvas to gather upon Frodo’s skin, caressing it to a subtle, lustrous glow. By that light, Sam had seen of him almost all there was to see, and it was far more glorious than he ever could have imagined. He hoped he’d soon get the chance to look again, but with light and time enough for a truly _detailed_ appreciation of his Frodo. 

_His Frodo…_ and didn’t that sound wonderful? But— 

Over the thin and distant jollity of fiddle, pipe and drum, Sam heard a voice approaching through the darkness now - and only one word could he make out clearly: 

‘…Frodo…’

The voice belonged to Mr Bilbo.

‘Frodo!’ Sam repeated it with far more urgency, and a gentle shake to a shoulder that showed pure, cool cream under canvas-filtered light.

‘Mmm?’ A sleepy question accompanied by the kiss of soft lips to Sam’s chest. It was scarcely the ideal way to keep his mind on a threat that was getting ever closer. 

‘Frodo, wake up! _Listen_! It’s Mr Bilbo and he’s coming _here_!’

‘I do assure you, MAYOR WHITFOOT—’ Bilbo’s voice was louder already, setting aside any emphasis on the name; not here as yet, maybe, but a deal too close for comfort for all that - with a distinct note of warning in it, to Sam’s ear, and more than a touch of desperation, too, ‘—that it will be perfectly safe left in there overnight. As I said, I sent FRODO here, not long ago, to set _our_ belongings in safekeeping.’ 

‘Where… is… he… then?’ His Worship’s effort-filled response proved him to have little breath to spare for conversation when there was walking to be done. It was, after all, a fair distance from the food and the dancing to this little tent, almost lost on the far side of the Showring; so completely secluded from the night’s festivities. 

There were several parts of Sam that could have answered that question with a joyful, _Here!_ for Frodo was most definitely awake now; _all_ of him, as he proved in a delightful, if – given the present circumstances - completely unhelpful wriggle.

‘Oh, I expect FRODO will be back at the dancing by now!’ 

Sam gathered what attention he could to Mr Bilbo’s supposition – which, volume aside and by his way of thinking, was one in which Mr Bilbo did not for a single moment believe. ‘They’ll be here any minute - no keeping _them_ out, neither! What do we _do_?’ he whispered, his usual practicality submerged for the moment by embarrassment and a returning guilt.

Surprisingly, Frodo was on his feet almost before Sam had finished asking. ‘Hide, of course – no time for anything more!’ he whispered back, smothering a laugh. Already he was collecting their clothes, thrusting them into deepest shadow behind the line of chairs, though still with a due care for his corsage.

‘Well… we’ve… arrived… at last…’ the Mayor said, his panted words right close, but coming more easily now he’d reached a standstill. ‘And since I’ve… walked all this way… rather than drag anyone else… from their enjoyment… I really don’t know why you… insisted on coming with me, Bilbo… I’m not so fat that I need help to _walk_ … you know!’

‘No, but if I hadn’t accompanied you with the lantern, you might well have tripped over one of the guy-ropes, and then where would you have been, hm? Out here all alone, with a broken ankle, like as not. I’d never have forgiven myself,’ Bilbo said, his voice hovering somewhere amidst worry, suppressed amusement and smug righteousness.

Sam gulped in alarm as he dragged the sheets as far beneath the table as possible. ‘A _lantern_!’ He mouthed the words almost silently now. ‘They’ll see us for sure!’

‘Trust to Bilbo.’ Frodo answered in the same way, kneeling to crawl back onto the very much narrower bed Sam had contrived. ‘He’ll cover for us if he can!’ Frodo sounded so sure, that Sam squelched down on his panic and put his trust in Mr Bilbo; he’d _sent_ them here, after all.

‘Oh, all right,’ said the Mayor, only a trifle grudgingly, ‘perhaps it _was_ for the best and I thank you. But now I _have_ come all this way, I’ll collect what’s mine and feel the happier for it. I should never have taken the dratted thing off in the first place, but that it gets heavy after a while, and it _clinks_ every time I move.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Today’s been a very long one, and I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for my bed. We simply _cannot_ go off to the inn, though, and abandon the symbol of my office all the way out here, wrapped up in a _towel_!’

Before this ramble was ended, Frodo had pulled another of the dust sheets free and folded it to cover them. He lay carefully down with a breath of huffed laughter. It sharpened suddenly to a hiss, then, as skin slid wonderfully against skin once more - soft and hard at once, sweaty-damp and needing to be stroked. But he didn’t lie beside Sam, as he’d expected. 

Sam’s welcoming gasp was really far too loud as Frodo settled on _top_ of him, dragging the sheet to hide them completely. Sam’s thighs spread wide - seemingly of their own accord - and Frodo slipped easily between, just as Bilbo said, with a hint of impatience and _very_ close by, ‘Take the lantern a minute, would you? I’ll need both hands to undo the lacing. I wish lads didn’t feel the need to show off at this sort of thing. I didn’t even know that Frodo—’ the volume was almost excessive, now, ‘—that FRODO knew how to do it!’

Whatever Frodo did or did not know about the ways of twine and canvas, he possessed great expertise, Sam discovered now, in almost completely passive stimulation.

‘Perhaps it was that gardener lad of yours,’ the Mayor suggested. ‘I expect he was here too – never one without the other, the whole Show, you know!’ He sounded indulgent - possibly even nostalgic for his own carefree (and comparatively slender) youth amongst such friends.

Sam had caught sight of Mayor Whitfoot more than once over the past few days, but he’d never thought the Mayor would notice Sam Gamgee, much less recognise him. Not when it’d be Frodo Baggins, nephew and heir to _the_ Mr Baggins of Bag End, that he was really seeing.

‘If this interruption lasts much longer,’ Frodo murmured into Sam’s ear, with a low wriggle that more than proved his point, ‘I think I may explode like one of Gandalf's famous elf-fountains! And it would be such a waste,’ he added slyly, with a lick that brought Sam perilously close to that state, ‘for this time I want to do it with you inside!’

For a second, Sam froze. Frodo wanted that, too! ‘Oh, yes!’ he said, low but very intent. ‘Please!’

They buried their faces in each other’s neck and kissed speeding breaths onto skin to keep the clear sounds of suddenly increased desire from escaping, telltale, into the air. Such tiny movements as their bodies stole without volition were as arousing as anything Sam had ever felt, checked only a little by the possibility that their hiding place (amongst other things) might shortly be laid bare.

‘Sticklebacks!’ said Bilbo - inside the tent now, his imprecation quite unnervingly near. The spill of light that had accompanied him, however, was suddenly extinguished; he must’ve reclaimed his lantern while Sam’s attention was elsewhere. ‘Just when we could have done with it, too!’ he said, almost convincing Sam of a real regret. 

‘Dratted thing must have a faulty wick or something. Still, there’s moon enough to see by if you can remember where you left it. On the table, I expect? Tread warily, though - I think the sheets the lads used for their little performance were bundled together under there, to be out of the way. I must remind Sam to collect them in the morning, but just you take care you don’t catch a foot in them now, in the dark!’

Frodo quivered violently over Sam, hiding a snort in the hair at his neck. Sam too had a sudden picture of Will Dumpling toppling right over, and of the shock in his face should out-stretched hands meet what may be discovered beneath those sheets, so naked and so prominent. His helpless, breathless snigger was drowned by a hoarsely nervous whistling, almost over their heads it seemed, of Bilbo’s favourite tune. 

Mayor Whitfoot sniffed deeply. ‘My goodness, you can tell the two of them were here just before us! There’s the trophy of course,’ he pinged a finger against it, ‘he deserved that, the lad did. But that rose must have a _really_ powerful scent to linger so - you’d almost swear it was still here somewhere! There’s a hint of clove carnation, too – and—’

‘The chain?’ Bilbo interjected hurriedly.

‘Yes, of course – now, where in the Shire did I—?’ He sounded worried now - ‘I _thought_ I’d left it just—’ then relieved – ‘Yes, here it is!’ – then slightly annoyed – ‘Oops – butter-fingers!’ 

There was a metallically slithering sound, and something that could only be the Mayoral chain of office landed in the grass, barely an inch or three from Sam’s right knee. The latter was, perhaps, protruding a little further than was wise; but with Frodo's hips well-settled between his thighs now as if they belonged there, it was unavoidable, really. And somehow, Sam had become increasingly detached from the fear of discovery. 

The whereabouts of that chain may very soon pose a distinct problem, however, and one to which he must give what little of his attention might be spared right then. He peered cautiously from beneath the sheet, to the reassuring thought that there was, at least, not the slightest danger of the Mayor _kneeling_ to seek out his property. Reassurance vanished immediately, though, replaced by instant alarm as His Worship’s right foot thrust forward into their hiding place. Toes that showed surprisingly shapely in the half-dark were questing perilously close to Sam’s middle, and neither he nor Frodo could raise a hand - nor anything else appropriate - to prevent their approach.

The whistling ceased abruptly, and Bilbo’s voice said, ‘Not to worry, I’ll find it!’ His face appeared abruptly below the level of the table top and despite all shadow Sam would have sworn to an anxious glare as Bilbo took up the errant article. Frodo had twisted his head from under the sheet and he spoke an almost unvoiced, ‘Thank you!’ to his uncle. It was swallowed up by the deliberately rattled clink of decorative metals, as Bilbo heaved himself to his feet and out of sight once more.

Sam blew out a breath of quiet gratitude. He noted only vaguely that Mr Bilbo paused to lace up the tent as they departed; wishing, he proclaimed loudly enough to penetrate the haze of pleasure that was rapidly overtaking at least two of his auditors, his belongings to remain undisturbed here. He barely noticed at all when Mayor Whitfoot, fully recovered for the moment, wondered aloud if they might not address a further bite to eat - and maybe a small sup - to sustain them while his trap was fetched up for the short drive to the Farthings Inn.

He’d lost all track of their voices long before the two were truly out of earshot, what with Frodo laughing silent kisses onto his skin. Sam’s awareness began and ended in the here-and-now, with hands that cupped his shoulders possessively, pulling him nearer; with a slow, damp glide, warm and very hard against him.

His hands smoothed downward, skimming the hollow of Frodo’s hip to claim the tightly rounded flare of his bottom. Frodo, beneath his hands like this…but had he really meant…? Sam ran a finger down the cleft between – not insistent, in case Frodo had changed his mind; just a subtle pressure to remind him of what had been half-promised. And Frodo moved – not away from Sam’s gentle hint, but with the supple writhe that’d convinced Sam already that eight had to be the most wonderful number he’d ever felt scribed so urgently against him. His finger slipped inward quite naturally, and he heard Frodo’s breath catch as wrinkled skin slid beneath his touch.

It were one thing to want this, though; quite another to dare the step from wanting to taking.

‘Frodo?’ he said, dragged suddenly from his haze of pleasure by the loss of Frodo’s warmth against him.

Frodo had left him again, but Sam was not worried now, only disappointed. He stroked a tease up Frodo’s thigh as he knelt to reach up onto the table. Sam heard a hissed intake of breath and the scrabbled shifting above his head was suddenly more hurried. ‘Frodo, what—?’ 

He needed no other answer than Frodo settling back on his heels to open an unclaimed jar of Mistress Earthy’s finest salve. Sam swallowed. For all the many times he had dreamed – waking or sleeping – of taking Frodo for his own this way, there’d been no reason then for salve, nor for the care that was needed now. This jar was proof beyond anything that this was real, at last.

‘What—’ he broke off to wet suddenly dry lips with a tongue that felt to have lost all power for speech. ‘I don’t really know—what must I do?’ 

‘You’ll have to go slow for me, Sam,’ Frodo said quietly. ‘I haven’t done this in a long time, but I want it, with you.’

Sam swallowed again, so loud he reckoned any hobbit stood outside the tent must have heard it. ‘I can do slow,’ he said then, nodding so earnestly that Frodo choked on a laugh. ‘How do I—?’

Frodo held out the jar. ‘Fingers first,’ he said, ‘one, then two. Use plenty – there’s no such thing as too much, for this.’ He kissed Sam hard, then turned away to lie on his side, drawing his top leg forward and up. Sam watched the pale shape of him slide easily into place before he scooped salve with one finger, setting the jar aside but close to hand. He realised that Frodo was shivering now, and he knew it was not with cold.

‘Frodo, are you—’

‘Sure? Yes. Ready? Oh yes! _Do_ it, Sam!’

Sam felt clumsy as never before, but the salve spread soft and wide from the heat of his hand, and Frodo’s breathless, _‘Oh!’_ merely from the circling of Sam’s fingers, was encouragement enough. It wasn’t only Frodo’s breathing that quickened as the circling drew toward to its centre, and Sam gathered his courage to push, finally, inside.

His finger slid easily into a startling satin heat. He watched in awe, his hand working firm and dark against the rounded cream of Frodo’s bottom. Frodo began to move, pushing back, drawing away, pushing again, and then he was talking, the same disjointed murmurings that had surprised Sam earlier. When you didn’t really know what you were doing, Sam thought hazily, it were good to have this constant reassurance. He took the hint now, speeding up until Frodo gasped and said quite clearly, ‘Two, Sam!’ 

Two fingers made him gasp in a different way and Sam remembered _Slow_. He changed direction to a gentle twist, a steady round and back, waiting for _tight_ to ease into _snug_ , waiting for Frodo to tell what more he needed. 

Then his fingers brushed against something different, something that stood slightly proud of the smooth satin, and Frodo tensed and said ‘Ah!’ his voice high and sharp. 

Sam felt a moment of panic. He’d no idea what he’d done - but whatever it was, Frodo had liked it. He was panting, begging, writhing back for more. Sam gave it to him gladly, stroking blindly, somehow finding just the right touch to keep his Frodo beautiful and desperate like this. Almost as desperate himself now, he shuffled closer, not caring that it was as much his own hand as Frodo that he was rubbing against, as long as he could answer his own need and still do this for Frodo. 

Frodo must have felt him though, for he said, ‘ _More_ than ready, Sam - need _you_ now! Use—’ 

Sam didn’t need the telling, though his own hands upon him - slippery slick with salve enough for him to dare what he’d wanted for so long - were almost too much. _Slow_ , he told himself as he moved into position behind Frodo. _Slow!_

He gritted his teeth against his own need and pushed forward tentatively – slowly - into a heat that was tighter than he’d ever imagined. But, after the first gasped shock, Frodo’s need seemed no longer to be for slow, after all. He lunged suddenly back toward Sam and Sam slipped home in one glorious burn of pleasure.

Frodo flung a hand back in warning, but Sam knew enough not to move until the hard clutch on his thigh eased, and Frodo proved that, given time, he could writhe as well or better in this position, too. 

Oh, the difference when you were inside! And when you moved too, finding a rhythm to match his pace… 

The sounds that Frodo made were more intense for this. His continuous murmur of naughty, loving half-words and desperate begging was broken now, time and again, with the sharp cry that proved Sam had found that place once more. Frodo’s hand left Sam’s thigh and grabbed for his hand instead, lacing it with his own and bringing both around to form the tight clasp that Frodo also needed.

And oh, the difference _then_!

Sensation everywhere, faster and harder, a rushing thrust and pull back, the tightening clench inside and out, on him, on Frodo, threaded with the hum of Frodo’s words that soon were clearer and more demanding, fiercer - more persuasive, though how Sam could have resisted that final, triumphant cry, he’d never know, for he fell before the sound was ended - in Frodo’s wake, as always.

For long moments, Sam’s world was all darkness shot through with stars, and the dizzying aftermath of pleasure; of harshly panting breaths and heartbeats you could almost hear. He held Frodo to him and they simply breathed together until the quiet returned. Sam pulled away then, turning Frodo to lie on his back and leaning to kiss him lightly. Neither of them seemed to have words but it didn’t matter. Sam smiled down at Frodo, and Frodo smiled back at him. For now, it was enough.

Sam propped himself on one elbow, to trace aimless patterns with a single finger on the skin of Frodo’s belly. It’d be hoping overmuch to raise more than a twitch in either of them again for a while – setting aside the fact that there’d not be a scrap of supper left if they didn’t make a move soon. But he liked the contrast of his hand moving there - dark shadow over pale; workaday fingers with hard callouses over soft, unblemished silkiness. 

‘I’m glad one of us had done that before,’ he confessed suddenly. ‘I’m not sure I’d’ve dared without you knowing how!’

‘It was quite a while ago – and it was nothing like this. I wasn’t that much older than you, and it was just…games and learning.’ Sam had a fleeting thought that either Frodo been an exceptional pupil or that his teaching had been of the best. Or both. ‘It didn’t matter to me, Sam, not as this matters.’

‘Who—?’ he bit off the rest of the question. It was wrong to ask, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

‘No-one you know. No-one I know any longer, really.’

‘Was it—?’ Frodo’s hand covered his mouth before Sam could finish the guess.

‘I didn’t love him, Sam – that’s all you need to know. Not the way I love you - and definitely not the way I want to love you.’ Frodo’s voice was low and rich and satisfied. Sam let go his lingering jealousy and believed.

There were still things he _could_ ask, though. There had to be other ways to make love, of course, just as there were with a lass. Sam had dreamed them, but you could do a lot of things in dream that you’d never manage in real life. Sam could ask, now, all those things he’d wanted to know but couldn't ask of anyone else - and not just for fear of sounding the innocent fool. Frodo would tell him, though. He wouldn’t mock.

‘Frodo? Can we—I—’ 

‘Anything, Sam – whatever you want, we can do together.’ 

‘I don’t even know if…can we do that so we can see each other? I—I’d’ve liked to see your face.’ He blushed, glad most of the redness in his cheeks would be swallowed up by shadow.

‘We can - I just thought it would be easier like that, this first time. And of course we can – in fact, Sam, _I’d_ very much like to—’ Frodo hesitated, and Sam’s heart stuttered at the thought.

‘Oh yes,’ he said at once, ‘please! I want you to! I want everything, with you.’ He blushed again, at his forwardness, but Frodo’s kiss said he was not alone in his wish. 

‘I suppose,’ Frodo said, echoing Sam’s earlier thought, ‘we really ought to go, or we’ll be sleeping supperless tonight. I seem to have worked up quite an appetite, somehow - have you?’

Sam laughed and nodded, and reluctantly they scrambled out from beneath the table, dragging the sheets with them. They’d to use them for a quick clean up, of course, and then reassembled them into something that looked, at least, like a tidy pile.

Dressing each other could never be quite as agreeable as _un_ dressing, of course, but there was still enjoyment to be found along the way. In fact, given that there were a good many kisses and a deal of soft touching, it was rather moot, once or twice, as to whether the whole notion of leaving here might not be abandoned altogether. But supper was calling more loudly now, and eventually the two were back in shirts and trousers.

Sam was buttoning Frodo’s right cuff when he noticed the pair of GAFFS stamps, side by side. They were a little smudged, to be sure, but still clear enough on the back of that hand. He lifted it to kiss them. 

‘Sam?’ Sam turned the hand and kissed its palm to show he was listening. ‘Sam, when I was in the line to be stamped, I caught sight of Betony Meridew—’ 

He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it - Sam tensed just from hearing the name. Frodo pulled him close and stroked his back comfortingly. ‘You didn’t really think I was interested in her, did you? The way she spoke about you—’ 

‘About _me_?’

‘Oh yes, Sam. Remember the first day, when Bilbo sent me to find whatever it was? I met her then, and she was _full_ of your praises. She told me all about the very special rose you’d given her, and what a _wonderful_ gardener you must be – and how remarkably _handsome_ she thought you, into the bargain!’ Frodo wrinkled his nose at the memory.

‘I _explained_ about the rose already, and how she wheedled me into parting with it!’ Sam protested, beginning already to worry that Frodo may—but then Frodo laughed.

‘I know, Sam - and it doesn’t matter any more, does it? But at the time, it seemed to me very likely that it was _you_ she had her eye on!’

Sam shook his head. ‘She could look all she wanted, but there were never the least risk of me casting eyes back at Betony Meridew! But I thought—I did think you might, what with her being such a good match for you and all.’ 

‘Oh no. We were rather more than friends once, but very briefly. We’d never have suited, and so she told me! But listen, Sam. You know how she can be…a little forward?’ Sam’s reply was a disbelieving laugh, snorted into his beloved’s neck.

‘Well, when I saw her tonight, she _wasn’t_ , not at all! She had a smile on her face that was as soft and gentle as I’ve seen on any lass’s. _Nearly_ ,’ he said, lifting Sam’s face to his with a finger beneath his chin, ‘nearly as loving as yours is, right now!’

Sam caught hold of the finger and drew it mischievously into his mouth. He closed his lips around it and sucked.

Frodo drew a sharp breath and his voice dropped to a choked whisper. ‘She was looking at Arbie Dilnott. Do you know Arbie?’

‘Of him, more like,’ Sam mumbled, around the finger. The Dilnotts were a well-to-do hobbit family from a grand smial up above Budgeford; not the sort of folks that the Gamgees of Bagshot Row, Hobbiton, would really _know._

‘Well, Arbie was getting his hand stamped for the two of _them_ , so he told me, and when he went back to her, she sort of _melted_ against him. Pasco was looking rather pleased about it, too!’ Frodo reluctantly reclaimed his finger now, and leaned for a proper kiss instead.

Mr Meridew couldn’t possibly have been as pleased as Sam was, right this moment; but then, rather more than not of Sam’s satisfaction had absolutely nothing whatever to do with Betony Meridew – nor with any lass whatever, and never would.

Their kiss dissolved into laughter when Sam’s stomach chose that very moment to put in a loud complaint of emptiness, with Frodo’s in complete if more restrained agreement. With only a swiftly pecked kiss more, they parted, Frodo to pick up and put on his coat, still with a careful regard for his corsage; Sam to shrug into his waistcoat, re-settling the carnation over his heart, just where Frodo had pinned it. 

He went over and began to unravel Bilbo’s surprisingly competent lacing of the doorway, which was always that bit trickier from the inside. P’raps not such a surprise really though, he thought; it were _Mr Bilbo_ after all; Sam’s respect and admiration for his employer had increased even further this evening. 

They ducked outside together and Sam reached for the topmost loop of twine.

‘Let me try, Sam. I really ought to learn how,’ Frodo said. ‘Can’t have Uncle Bilbo telling _too_ many fibs for us!’

‘Thread each one through its matching eyelet, then through the loop from above, and pull down tight so you’ve got a loop there, ready for the next - that’s the way,’ Sam directed, watching as deft fingers quite quickly picked up the repetitive task.

He turned toward the distant lights. The dance was still going on, and there didn’t look from here to be any fewer hobbits enjoying themselves than there’d been when he and Frodo left. Maybe it weren’t all that late, and supper not such a lost cause after all. 

Sam stood, then, simply looking. There was time now to notice the vast emptiness that contained this small portrait of hobbit revelry. 

Neatly framed - half in darkness, half in the angle formed by two vast, moon-whitened tents - the glitter of coloured lights shone down on a brightly moving picture set to music.

But beyond that – out here, where the main business of the Show had been conducted - all was silent and deserted. Around the edges of the Showring only a scatter of the larger booths remained, and the Rides were closed up, waiting to be dismantled come the morning. Beyond them the other marquees showed white in the moonlight, the space between them dark as dark. There was still an occasional rustle of movement from the area where the livestock were penned, as they shifted in sleep or pulled contentedly at hay, but less than half of them remained now. There’d likely be a dawn start for the rest, when those hobbits who’d stayed on for the ceremony and the ball set off for home; hoping to be there – or at least a good piece along the way – by evening.

Frodo finished his lacing and came to stand at Sam’s shoulder, saying nothing. He looked out into the quiet darkness of the Showground as Sam was looking.

‘It’s all to take apart again, tomorrow,’ Sam said quietly, as much to himself as to Frodo. ‘I’ve stayed right to the end, more than once, and it’s sad, in its way. Shouldn’t really be aught more than the opposite of what we did the first day we was here – it’s the same job after all, just in a different order. But there’s no fun to it no more, ’cause you’ve naught to look forward to. Getting your entries in and then seeing if you might’ve got a rosette or even a card. Enjoying the Rides and trying the games. It’s all over for another year, and all that’s left is the shadow of something good, being taken to pieces.’ 

Frodo took Sam’s hand now, threading their fingers together, but still he said not a word.

'It takes longer too, somehow, no matter how many of you there are to each job. You watch Rides and tents come down, one by one, and you see it get carted away, section by section. The very few last folk are in a rush to finish packing up their bits and bobs, and you wonder why the sudden hurry to get home, when they must’ve left their leaving late a’purpose. The wagons have been streaming out of the gate from early on, o’course. You could track the lanes for miles around, I reckon, by the dust that rises above ’em, if you were only stood somewhere high enough to see. And the field’s getting emptier all the time - less and less hobbits needed as time goes on, so they’re taking theirselves off, too, a few at a time. It’s not till right late in the day, though, that you notice just how quiet it’s got.’ 

Sam shook his head slowly. ‘And all at once, it seems, there’s naught left but a few scattered bales and those hobbits with the muck carts that clean up where the stock’s been kept. Maybe one or two more, going round collecting up what’s been forgotten, but that’s it, really – all done, all gone.’

A soft squeeze to his fingers told him Frodo understood what he was trying to say. 

‘Day after tomorrow, there’ll not be much more than scattered shapes of yellowed grass and bits of blown straw to tell the Show was here. And given a good drop of rain, in a month all will be as it was.’ 

‘Not all, Sam, not—’ Frodo paused for a deep breath, ‘—not unless you wish all to be as it was?’

‘Mr Fr—’ Sam got no further, Frodo’s fingers suddenly firm against his mouth. 

‘Not when we’re alone like this, Sam, please!’

Sam nodded. ‘Can’t promise it, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve called you Mr Frodo so long that, in my mind, I sort of made it—’ he blushed, squirming a bit now, ‘—made it into…like a loveword! When I use it for you, it sounds – well, to me it does, anyway - it sounds just that bit different. Enough for me to know it’s you I’m saying it to, and not Mr Bilbo or Mr Underwood or anybody else at all - only you. It always will be, Frodo. Only you. 

‘So, the short answer would be - no, I really don’t want all to be as it was.’

Frodo hugged him so tightly that Sam was breathless all over again, then he took Sam’s hand and they set off walking.

‘The Show may be ending for the year, Sam, but other things have made a good beginning. Most importantly, you and I being together, but Betony seems to have made up her mind to have Arbie Dilnott, and I did wonder,’ he paused and squeezed Sam’s hand, ‘about May and the Whittier lad – what’s his name?’

Sam stopped and tugged Frodo round to face him. ‘Jem Whittier? You really think—?’ It were one thing to suspect it yourself, another to know that anyone else had noticed – even Frodo with his sharp eye for detail; that it may not be just as vague a possibility as you’d hoped.

‘Sam, they’re both older than you are! It’s good that you want to protect May but I’d leave the pair of them – if they _are_ a pair - to Daisy and Gaffer if I were you. They’ve managed well enough between them, so far – and quite _wonderfully_ well, at times!’ 

Sam blushed as he realised the compliment. ‘There’s Til and Rafe too,’ he offered, ‘and them maybe not having to be apart the whole year through. You could see how much that hurts Til. Well, Rafe too, I expect, only we don’t know him so well.’

‘As yet, Sam, as yet! If I know my Uncle, Til and Rafe will soon be much happier hobbits, even _before_ Yule, and—’ he wiggled his fingers before Sam’s face and lowered his voice to sound mysteriously all-knowing, ‘ _I_ foresee… Rafe Boswell’s face becoming quite well-known around Hobbiton!’ he finished with a laugh.

Then hand in hand, talking of the Show, of the people they’d met and the things they’d seen and done together, they crossed the moonlit field to where supper and bed - and tomorrow - awaited them.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This story is dedicated** to Notabluemaia, with much love and huge respect; without her friendship, hard work and dedication to the cause (plus an incredible ability to put up with the laziest perfectionist _ever_ ) my Showfic would be much the poorer (and possibly a WiP for another five years, too!)


End file.
